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SKETCHES OF CHARACTER AND INCIDENT WITH ROD 

AND GUN, FROM CHILDHOOD TO MANHOOD ; 

FROM THE KILLING OF LITTLE FISHES 

AND BIRDS TO A BUFFALO HUNT. 



By FRED MATHER 

("kego-b-kat"). 



Author of *' Adirondack Fishes," " Trouting on the Bigosh," "A 

Gander Pull in Arkansaw," "The Death of 

Pongo" and Other Stories. 



With Portraits. 



"For I had strength, youth, gaiety— 

A port, not like to this ye see, 

But as smooth as all is rugged now ; 

For time, and care, and war have ploughed 

My very soul from out my brow." 

—Mazeppa, 



New Yoek: 
FOREST AND STREAM PUBLISHING CO. 

1897. 




TWO eCfSES RECEIVED 






kkO'^ois 



Copyright. 1897. 

BY THE 

FOREST AND STREAM PUBLISHING CO. 






CONTENTS. 



REUBEN WOOD II 

My First Fish. 

BILLY BISHOP 20 

Bobbing for Eels. 

JOHN ATWOOD 30 

First Night in Camp. 

PORTER TYLER 41 

My Early Teacher of Woodcraft. 

GEORGE DAWSON 54 

My First Trout. 

MAJOR GEORGE S. DAWSON 64 

GEORGE W. SIMPKINS 67 

My First Deer. 

COLONEL CHARLES H. RAYMOND 79 

Turtles, Setters and Ducks. 

THE BROCKWAY BOYS 89 

Michigan in '49 — My First Turkey. 

CAPTAIN IRA WOOD 102 

Striped Bass in Fresh Water — Early Greenbush. 

GENERAL MARTIN MILLER 114 

Skating, Ice-Boating and Camp Cookery. 

GARRETT VAN HOESEN 127 

Spearing Eels and Trapping Rabbits. 

STEPHEN MARTIN 141 

Trap and Rifle Shooting — The War Cloud. 

GEORGE RAYNOR 156 

Duck Shooting and a Tragedy. 



4 CONTENTS. 

CHARLES GUYON 169 

Gigging Fish in Wisconsin — Shooting a Deer with 
Wooden Plugs. 

CORPORAL HENRY R. NEAVILLE 184 

A 'Coon Hunt — Fishing the "Sloos" of the Missis- 
sippi. 

ANTOINE GARDAPEE 200 

Canto L — Trapping Fur — Killing a Wolverine. 

ANTOINE GARDAPEE 217 

Canto n. — Another Wolverine — Snow Blind. 

ANTOINE GARDAPEE 234 

Canto III. — Christmas in the Forest. 

SERGEANT FRANK NEAVILLE 251 

Fish, 'Coons and Pawpaws. 

TAY-BUN-ANE-JE-GAY 268 

In Northern Minnesota — Fishing Through Ice. 

WE-NEN-GWAY 286 

A Muskrat Feast — The Trip Home on the Ice. 

SERGEANT WILLIAM PATTERSON 303 

A "Bad Man," a Load of Fish and a Dead Child. 

WILLIAM WARREN 317 

Shooting Fish in Kansas — Bachelor's Hall — The 
Border War. 

AMOS DECKER 33^ 

Skittering for Pike — Legerdemain — My Only Buf- 
falo Hunt. 

A CHRISTMAS WITH "OLD PORT" 353 

Return of the Wanderer and the Feast Port Tyler 
Made in Honor of the "Jayhawker" — Stories 
Told by Port, Billy Bishop, Mat Miller and 
Others Until Daylight Came Through the 
Windows. 



PORTRAITS. 



>FRED MATHER Frontispiece 

From a photograph in 1897. 

REUBEN WOOD 16 

GEORGE DAWSON 56 

MAJOR GEORGE S. DAWSON 64 

COLONEL CHARLES H. RAYMOND 80 

CAPTAIN IRA WOOD 112 

GENERAL MARTIN MILLER 120 

STEPHEN MARTIN 144 

FRED MATHER 352 

From photograph in 1864, as First Lieutenant Bat- 
tery L, Seventh New York Heavy Artillery. 



A WORD WITH THE READER. 



These sketches originally appeared in the Forest and 
Stream. Read between the lines, and at times in them, 
will be found the wanderings of a boy who had no further 
object in view than to be in the woods and on the waters, 
and who had no taste for anything like the harness of 
civilization. 

During the years of vagabondizing many things oc- 
curred which at the time seemed to deserve little notice, 
but subsequently grew into pleasant memories; and I be- 
gan to write them up, naturally expecting that my imme- 
diate relatives and personal friends would read them with 
some interest. I was surprised and gratified to find how 
many strangers said pleasant things of them, and to know 
that there was a demand for them in book form. 

The present volume comprises the twenty-four chap- 
ters which appeared between July ii and Dec. 26, 1896. 
Other sketches of "Men I Have Fished With" have been 
printed since, and at this writing, in October, 1897, the 
series is in progress. 

I have aimed to make a sketch of the boy or man of 
whom I wrote, so that the reader, gentle or otherwise, 
would know him, as I thought I did, and I find myself tell- 
ing how to bob for eels, camp out and sleep in barns, kill 
deer with wooden plugs, taking my first trout on a worm, 
hunting turtles with Colonel Raymond in boyhood and 
reviewing his famous setters in after years, shooting tur- 
keys, spearing eels through ice, and many other things too 
numerous to mention, up to the time when I was glad to 
get back home. 



8 A WORD WITH THE READER. 

My lesson had been learned in that dearest of schools, 
but it took more years than with apter scholars. Yet I 
have never regretted the cost of the education. 

The earlier incidents recorded took place in Green- 
bush, N. Y., and on the Popskinny Creek. I have outlived 
them both. The creek was merely an arm of the Hudson 
reaching behind an island, and water no longer flows 
through it, I tried to get at its correct name, but failed. 
Mr. A. C. Stott, of Stottville, N. Y., writes that on a 1777 
map it is spelled "Popscheny," and that older writers give 
"Palp-Sikenekoitas," while O'Callaghan, in his "History 
of the New Netherlands," speaks of the "Papsknee." Col- 
onel David A. Teller, whose family has owned a farm on its 
banks for over a century, gives me other spellings, and 
I've seen it as "Popsquinea," therefore I have fallen into 
the habit of spelling it as we boys pronounced it. It 
makes no diflference now, it does not exist. 

Greenbush is dead in name only. It is now a city of 
the Empire State, having been consolidated with East 
Albany, Bath and other places, under the name of Rens- 
selaer — confound the vandals who had no regard for the 
historic name honored in history by Fort Crailo, which is 
the oldest building now standing in America, and by 
Washington's headquarters on the McCulloch farm, on 
the heights above the village. 

So, one by one, the columns supporting the arches of 
our memories are swept away by a younger generation, 
which cares nothing for them. They are falling fast. 
Men who are now reckless boys will live to realize this. 
A year ago I made a pilgrimage to the old scenes, and I 
regret it. 

I was a stranger in a strange land. The tan-yard was 
gone; the nut orchard was filled with cottages, and the 
trees had gone where good trees go. No one likes to out- 



A WORD WITH THE READER. 9 

live his cherished world or wants to know the holder of his 
birthplace and the intruders in the haunts of his boyhood. 
I will go there no more; I prefer to have my memories 
left undisturbed. The "City of Rensselaer" may grow 
and prosper, but Greenbush has passed away. 

I hope the reader may find as much pleasure in these 
memories of boyhood as I did in writing them. 

F. M. 



REUBEN WOOD. 



MY FIRST FISH. 



THIS noted sportsman, who for nearly half a century 
made his home in Syracuse, N. Y., was well 
known throughout the State, and it was my good 
fortune to have him as an instructor in the art of angling 
in earliest boyhood. We were born in the then small vil- 
lage of Greenbush (opposite Albany), he in December, 
1822, and I eleven years later. 

Almost every man who has passed the half-century 
milestone on life's journey loves to imitate Lot's wife and 
look over his shoulder, and usually the retrospect is pleas- 
ant because we do not remember clearly; we conjure up 
the roses in the pathway, and the small thorns are indis- 
tinct in the distance; a faint humming of the bees whose 
honey we stole brings no remembrance of the penalty 
paid for it; the wound of the sting is cured by the honey- 
in memory, at least. Poor indeed is the man of fifty who 
has no wealth of retrospect and who thinks the punish- 
ment of Lot's wife was fitted to the crime ! It was cruelly 
unjust, and in compensation at this late day she should be 
sainted perhaps with the name and title of Saint Salina. 
Here I pause to ask if there is really any such thmg as 
an occult cerebration which caused my pen to turn to 
thoughts of Lot's wife while writing an apology for look- 
ing back at the boyhood of a citizen of Syracuse, N. Y., 
the great salt-producing city of the State? 

There are men who never could have been boys — en- 
gaged in boyish sports and had a boy's thoughts. Every 
one has known such men. Men who must have been at 
least fifty years old when they were born — if that event 



12 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

ever happened to them — and have no sort of sympathy 
for a boy nor his ways; crusty old curmudgeons who 
never burned their fingers with a firecracker or played 
hookey from school to go a-fishing. They may be very 
endurable in a business way, but are of no possible use as 
fishing companions. I speak by the card, for I've been 
in the woods with them. 

Reuben Wood was a boy, and was one to me as long 
as he lived. We were boys together, he being a big boy 
when I was but a little one; he was at our house a great 
deal, and is among the earliest of memories. He was 
"Reub" all through life to all his familiars, and they were 
many. 

It was a summer day, and I was some six or eight 
summers old, when Reub came down the street with some 
fish that he had caught in a stream then the northern 
boundary of the village, but now in it and fishless. After 
much solicitation he agreed to let me in the party next 
day — Bruin and me. Now, Bruin was a big Newfound- 
land dog belonging to my father which Reub had taught 
to pick me up whenever he said, "Bruin, go fetch Fred," 
no matter what screams, kicks and protests his burden 
made, and this was one of Reub's jokes which I failed to 
appreciate. We started, Bruin and I, in high glee. Reub 
cut some poles, rigged the lines, floats and hooks and put 
on the worms, and he soon had a perch, a monster it 
seemed then and does yet, while the sunfish that tried to 
run away with my float and which Reub helped to land 
probably weighed more than the grocer's scales could 
tell; it must have been as big as lOO modern ones, and 
Reub said "it was as big as a piece of chalk." Such was 
my first experience in angling, as clear in memory as if 
only a week ago. 

A little pond turtle stuck his head up near the float, 



REUBEN WOOD. 13 

looked at it and us, and paddled to the bottom in the fun- 
niest way. Reub called it a "skillypot," but he had funny 
names for everything. Then I caught a perch, actually 
bigger than the sunfish, and a new world seemed to open; 
but the spines of the fish cut my hand and the world was 
not so bright. Five fish came to my lot in all, but Reub 
had about twenty — some perch, sunfish, two bullheads 
and an eel. He said that I let the fish eat the worms off. 
I saw a turtle climb on a log while Reub was up the bank 
after more worms, and I went out on the log to get it, but 
the turtle slid into the water, and so did I. A scream 
brought Reub, who whistled for Bruin and ordered him 
to "Fetch Fred," and he did. Oh, the dripping of clothes 
and the splashing of shoes as we went home, and the fear- 
ful tale of a turtle who wouldn't wait to be caught! This 
last seemed the greatest cause of grief and afforded Reub 
and other boys a text for teasing, which they worked to 
an annoying extent, and it was long before he would take 
me fishing again, saying, "No, you'll go diving for tur- 
tles." This occurred about 1840, and Reub referred to 
it the last time I saw him, in 1883. 

At this time Greenbush was a very quaint little village 
on the upper Hudson, whose connection with the outside 
world was by the Albany stage to Boston and by ferry to 
Albany. No railroad entered it, and in fact the only one 
at that time in the whole State of New York ran from 
Albany to Schenectady, and hauled its cars to the top of 
the hill by a stationary engine before hooking on the 
light locomotive. The place was favorable for the devel- 
opment of character, unhampered by the conventionalities 
which come from contact with outside people, and Reu- 
ben grew to manhood there and retained a quaint sim- 
plicity all his life, a rugged, honest nature, whom it was 
refreshing to know, and was a lovable man to meet. If, 



14: MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

as a boy, he ever indulged in forays on the fruit and melon 
patches of the farmers, the fact is unknown to me. That 
I did is certain, but the disparity of years forbade com- 
radeship in such nocturnal pleasures. He was large, 
strong and heavy of movement, with a deep chest voice, 
even when a boy, that was remarkable. His brother Ira, 
nearer my age, resembled him in this and other particu- 
lars, and in both there was an air of honesty and truthful- 
ness, not so frequent in boys, which was fully borne out in 
their characters as men. 

In after years I had a joke on Reub which was orig- 
inally on me as a boy, but later knowledge reversed it. 
With some other boys I had been fishing away up the hill 
in the pond of the locally famous "red mill," and had seen 
a pair of wood ducks alight upon a tree. We somehow 
knew that they were wild ducks, but had no idea that the 
term included more than one kind, for at that day we only 
knew one sort of tame ducks. To see a duck alight on 
a tree was strange, and I told Reub of it; and he spread 
the incredible story, for he knew nothing of wood ducks, 
and the laugh was on me. "Seen any ducks lightin' on 
trees lately?" was a common and annoying salutation, and 
years later the question was turned on Reub. I fished 
with him many times as a boy, never after he left Green- 
bush for Syracuse, in 1852; but we met occasionally after 
1876, when thrown together at fairs and fly-casting tour- 
naments, and he seemed to be the same boy that somehow 
had gray hair. 

The picture of him gives an excellent idea of his manly 
face, but the cigar I do not recognize. This is not re- 
markable, because he used from a dozen to twenty each 
day, and there are people who might not recognize his 
picture without a cigar of some kind. The badge upon 
his corduroy coat is a certificate that he is a member of 



REUBEN WOOD. 15 

the Onondaga Fishing Club, of Syracuse, which was al- 
ways represented at the State Sportsmen's tournaments. 
Take a good look at him! That kind, honest face would 
be a passport anywhere. To me he was always the same 
lovable boy to whom I looked up as guide, philosopher 
and friend on my first fishing trip away back in the forties. 
I think I am a better man for knowing Reub Wood when 
he was a big boy and I a child. From him I learned that 
the world was round — "rounder than a marble," he said — 
and I saw that the sky was the upper half and that we 
were inside the world; if he knew better he never ex- 
plained the matter. 

Reuben's humor was manifested in the use of strange 
words, which he probably manufactured, as I never heard 
them from any other person. A bad knot in a fish line 
was a "wrinkle-hawk," an excellent thing was "just exe- 
bogenus," a big fish was "an old codwalloper," and a 
long-stemmed pipe was "a flugemocker." What a blank 
page is a boy's memory that such things written on it 
remain indelible for over half a century when more im- 
portant ones have faded ! The name of Reub Wood con- 
jures up these trifling things, which, if heard ten years 
ago, would have been forgotten. But he had such a 
strong individuality that a person who only met him for 
ten minutes would be impressed by it, and would know 
him in after years ; what wonder that he should carve his 
personality on the mind of a child? Impressions of other 
men and boys in that small village are also quite distinct, 
and, as is usual in such places, there is more profanity 
and obscenity heard by a boy than in cities, for the tough 
boy in small places excels in such things, and it seems 
to me that he was worse then than now. But the worst 
that I ever heard Reub say was "Gosh hang it," under the 
provocation of having to cut a fish hook out of his thumb. 



16 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

His mind was as pure as his life, and that is more than 
can be said of many who live straight enough, but have 
to resist temptation frequently. A man is not so much to 
be judged by his actions as by his thoughts, if you only 
knew them, and Reub's thoughts were his spoken words. 

In Greenbush he was employed in the bakery of Jonas 
Whiting, where he learned the mysteries of bread and 
cakes, and when he went to Syracuse he blossomed out 
as a caterer for balls and parties, and then established a 
business in fishing tackle, now carried on under the name 
of "Reuben Wood's Sons." His old cash book is still 
extant, and was not only what its name implied, but was 
day book, journal and ledger all in one, with a margin for 
a weather record which contained such items as "Gone 
hunting," "Went after ducks," "Gone a-fishing," etc. 
This is indefinite, and one wonders what the result may 
have been until we strike the entry: "Wood returned from 
Piseco with 250 lbs. of trout." 

In that early day, in the fifties, Onondaga Lake 
abounded in pickerel and eels, and Reub and his compan- 
ions often made a night of it, taking them with torch and 
spear, as was the custom of the time, and the catch went 
to their friends and the poor. When this mode of fishing 
became unpopular and unlawful, in later years, Reuben 
was one of the foremost in suppressing all kinds of fishing 
that the law forbade; but at the time of which we speak 
there was neither law on the subject nor public sentiment 
against spearing. He followed the custom of the day, 
merely drawing the line at fishing on Sunday. 

A chum of Reub's was Mr. Charles Wells, of Wells, 
Fargo & Co.'s Express, and they went shooting and fish- 
ing when the spirit moved. Mr. Wells had not only all 
the railroad transportation necessary, but could have 
trains stopped anywhere in the woods if necessary, night 




REUBEN WOOD. 



REUBEN WOOD. 17 

or day, by flag or fire signal. This brings a sigh, not of 
envy, but merely a wish that such conditions existed to- 
day and I was "in it," as the saying goes. 

One day in the fall of 1857 a report came to Mr. Wells 
that there were "rafts of ducks" on Cayuga Lake, one of 
those numerous large lakes of Western New York lying 
some thirty miles west of Syracuse, and a famous one for 
ducks. He told Reub just in time for him to gather his 
muzzle-loader and ammunition and get the next train 
going to Cayuga, at the foot of the lake via the "old road" 
of the New York Central R, R., a road then so slow that 
it took the best part of a day to get there. Wells had his 
camping outfit, and they camped for the night. As Reub 
told me the story years afterward, daylight found him in 
an old dugout, the only semblance of a boat at hand, while 
Wells had a good place on the shore. The ducks were 
flying down the lake and Wells had killed several, and 
was signaling him to come and pick them up, when a 
great flock of bluebills came up the stream and turned 
directly over Reub's head. As he let both barrels go the 
dugout somehow let him go into ice-cold water, but he 
hung on to his gun and got ashore chilled to the bone, 
and took the first train for Syracuse, where he traded his 
gun and equipments for a Knight's Templar badge and 
other things, and from that day foreswore the gun and 
devoted his energies to wielding the rod. 

About this time Mr. Wells learned to fish with the fly 
and taught Reuben the art, to which he became devoted. 
It was long after this that I met Reuben, the occasion 
being the tournaments of the New York State Associa- 
tion for the Protection of Fish and Game, where he was 
a frequent competitor in the fly-casting tournaments, but 
never would allow himself or his brother Ira to win first 
prize because of a chivalric idea that another competitor — 



18 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

to whom he always deferred — should not be beaten. 
Either of them could outcast the other man, whose hog- 
gish nature never allowed him to acknowledge the 
knightly courtesy — if he had the capacity to appreciate 
the sacrifice. Not until the State Association held its 
tournament at Brighton Beach, Coney Island, in June, 
1881, did Reuben Wood ever have a chance to cast un- 
hampered by his sentiment. Here he had a new competi- 
tor with a great local reputation, who had never cast in a 
State tournament before. This was in the two-handed 
salmon rod contest, and Reuben won the first prize, val- 
ued at $50, with a cast of iioft. His brother Ira came 
second, with loift. Harry Prichard cast 91ft., and F. P. 
Dennison 94ft. All but Prichard were members of the 
Onondaga Fishing Club, of Syracuse, and cast with the 
same rod — a split-bamboo, won by Reuben in the tourna- 
ment at Buffalo in 1878; length, 17ft. i in. As there was 
an allowance of 5ft. for every foot of rod in length, Mr. 
Prichard was allowed 9ft. 10 in. because his greenheart 
rod (made by himself) was ift. loin. shorter than the one 
used by the others; hence his amended record of 91ft. had 
an allowance of 9ft. loin., making it looft. loin., giving 
him third prize over Dennison. 

In 1883 Prof. Spencer F. Baird appointed Reuben to 
take charge of the angling department of the American 
display at the International Fisheries Exposition in Lon- 
don, an appointment of which he was justly proud, as he 
wrote me in a farewell letter, and on June 1 1 he took part 
in the English fly-casting tournament at the Welch Harp, 
where he won first in salmon casting with an i8ft. split- 
bamboo rod, scoring io8ft., Mr. Mallock casting 105ft. 
with an i8ft. greenheart rod. In the single-handed trout 
contest he won first with 82^ft. over four competitors. In 
a contest with two-handed trout rods, a thing unknown 



REUBEN WOOD. 19 

in America, Mr. Mallock won first with 105ft., and Mr. 
Wood took second prize with 102ft. 9in. His many 
trophies in the tournaments in Central Park, New York 
City, are familiar to readers of Forest and Stream. 

He died at his home in Syracuse on Feb. 16, 1884, in 
his sixty-second year. Mr. R. B. Marston, editor of the 
EngHsh Fishing Gazette, said of him: "I know many an 
angler in this country will feel sad at hearing genial, jolly, 
lovable 'Uncle Reub' has gone to his long rest. During 
his stay in this country he never failed to make friends of 
all who came in contact with him. I shall never forget 
the enthusiasm and almost boy-like glee with which he 
enjoyed a fishing trip with me to the Kennet, at Hunger- 
ford. He would stand for hours on the old bridge watch- 
ing the trout and marveling at their cuteness. The sys- 
tem of dry fly-fishing pleased and astonished him greatly, 
and he told me he meant to try it on some wary old Amer- 
ican trout he was acquainted with. Then he would show 
us some of his long casting with a split-cane rod. If we 
in this country, who only knew him so short a time, feel 
his loss so keenly, what must those home friends of his 
feel — his family and that wide circle of acquaintances who 
were proud to call him friend?" 

His death was very sudden — he fell dead while enter- 
ing his dining room. In addition to his love of the rod 
he was for many years an active member of the Syracuse 
Citizens' Corps, and later of the Sumner Corps, two well- 
known military organizations. He was also a member 
of the Baptist Church, and his name was a synonym for 
all that was honest and manly. The last time I met him 
he referred to our first fishing experience by saying, 
"Fred, are you catching many turtles now?" And the 
answer was, "No, Reub, it keeps me busy watching wood 
ducks light upon the trees." 



BILLY BISHOP. 

BOBBING FOR EELS. 

IF these hills should come together where would I be?" 
asked Billy when he found himself alone in Quacken- 
dary Hollow, where he had been sent to cut cord- 
wood. This was his excuse for returning from a lone- 
some spot which his superstitious mind peopled with all 
kinds of creatures, which might even draw the hills to- 
gether and crush him, as they had done on many occa- 
sions, he said, in Holland, where his grandparents came 
from. The scarcity of hills in that country may not have 
been known to Billy, but that was a matter of no impor- 
tance to him. 

The hollow lay half a mile above the village of Green- 
bush, and was then well timbered and uninhabited. 
Twenty years later it had quite a settlement, and was often 
called "Nigger Hollow." But Billy Bishop was fonder of 
the society of man than of those weird inhabitants who 
worked evil in the dark forests by day or in open fields by 
night. On the hill above the railroad was a field which 
formed part of the farm of Mr. Frederick Aiken, and a 
dilapidated barn in it was prominent in the sky-line from 
the river road above the first creek. This was the "spook- 
house lot" and the "spook-house barn," the house which 
gave the name having burned before my recollection. 
Billy told me that spooks danced in the barn on certain 
nights, and that in the shape of stumps of trees a dozen of 
them had chased him down the hill one night; but before 
daylight they changed into bats and flew back. This was 
certified to by John Pulver and Jakey Van Hoesen, chums 

20 



BILLY BISHOP. 21 

of Billy and rivals in doing odd jobs about Isaac Fryer's 
tavern when thirsty and time was plenty. The weight of 
evidence was convincing. These things happened in 
1 84 1, the date being fixed by the death of President Har- 
rison and the fact that Billy said: "Ef I'd V knowed he 
was a-goin' to die so soon I'd never 'a' woted fur him." 

At this time Billy may have been forty years old, may, 
have been sixty ; it was all the same thing to me — he was 
old. All men over thirty were old, and ten to thirty years 
more made no difference. 

"Ef you got a lantern I want to borry it to-night to 
get some worms outen yer garden," said Billy; and it was 
a revelation to me to see him pick up a quart of big 
"night walkers" in a short time. 

"What are you going to do with the big worms, 
Billy?" 

"Bobbin' fer eels; don't yer want to go, to-morrer 
night?" 

"Yes, if mother will let me; come around till I ask 
her." 

"Well," said mother, "he may go with you, Mr. 
Bishop, if you will take care that he doesn't fall overboard 
and you don't keep him out too late at night." 

"All right, ma'am; we can't stay late, because I'm only 
goin' here in the crik beginnin' about sundown, and eels 
don't bite at a bob much a'ter ten o'clock, nur, fur that 
matter, much a'ter nine. I'll take keer of him all right, 
an' mebbe I'll have some eels to skin fur yer bre'kfas', 
ma'am." 

The worms had been put in a keg with plenty of earth 
and set in a cool place. I was home from school early in 
the afternoon, for the mystery of bobbing for eels was to 
be unfolded to me by a master of the art. Billy was on 
hand an hour before sundown, and getting a few yards 



22 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

of stout linen thread and a knitting needle from my 
mother, we started for the woodshed to arrange some- 
thing, but just what it was to be was a mystery. First 
Billy cut off about six feet of thread and fastened it to the 
middle of the knitting needle by a knot and two half- 
hitches, two young eyes watching every move. Next he 
threaded a big worm straight through from one end to 
the other, ran it the whole length of the thread and fas- 
tened it so that it would not slip off. This was repeated 
until the thread was full and was six feet of living worms ; 
then he wound the string around the fingers of his left 
hand until the upper end was reached, when he cut off the 
knitting needle, took the coil from his hand and laid it on 
a piece of fish line, which he doubled over and tied hard 
and fast, cutting through to the threads and leaving a 
number of worm-covered loops at each side, and the 
"bob" was made. The fact that it was a dirty job did not 
disturb Billy nor me; in fact, we boys made many of them 
afterward, and neither dirt nor the possible suffering of 
the worms were ever given a thought ; and at this ripe age 
it seems to be no worse than the ordinary baiting of a 
hook with "our mutual friend," as a late writer called that 
humble beast which we have termed a "barnyard hackle" 
and scientists have dignified with the title of Lumhricus 
terrestris, to signify his ownership or occupancy of the 
soil. It simply seemed a trifle worse because the labor of 
impalement and the consequent dirt came all at once. 
These things are a matter of taste and temperament, 
nothing more. 

With the boat at anchor in the little creek, just below 
Hiram Drum's slaughter house, which was about as far up 
as a boat could go at ordinary times, Billy told me how to 
proceed. 

"In swifter water we'd had to use sinkers to get the 



BILLY BISHOP. 23 

bobs straight down," said he; "but we won't need 'em 
here. You see, you want to let your bob down till it 
touches the bottom and then raise it a couple of inches, 
for eels they swim near the bottom and hit the bob just 
right." 

"But you didn't put any hooks in my bob, Billy; how 
can I catch 'em when they bite?" 

His back was to me and he was looking upward. He 
smacked his lips, put something in his pocket, and said: 
"I have to take a little sassferiller fer my lungs, the doctor 
told me. Oh, no! we don't want no hooks; the eels just 
gets their teeth tangled in the threads and comes up, if 
you bring 'em easy, then when they are just up to the 
surface of the water lift 'em quick and gentle inter the 
boat and they drop ofif theirselves; but if you jerk 'em 
they're gone, er ef you hit the side of the boat with 'em 
they're gone. Drop yer bob over easy, so," and he low- 
ered his bob in the water without a splash. Soon I felt a 
jig, jig, very sharp, and said to Billy, "I've got a bite." 
"Pull up!" said he; "never let 'em more'n touch it," and he 
landed an eel in the boat. I tried it, but Billy said I was 
too quick, for the eel left. He took several before I 
boated one, for what with jerking the line and slapping 
them against the side of the boat they dropped back into 
the water, if they even got fairly started on the way up. 

It was easy after once getting the hang of the thing, 
and it soon came natural to haul up slowly to the surface 
and then swing them into the boat. Good fun this is in 
shallow water, when no better fishing offers, and many a 
night have I rowed from Albany down the Hudson to 
Van Wie's Point — some six miles below Albany, more or 
less — with a friend or two and spent a pleasant evening, 
in later years, fishing behind the dyke and just above Van 
iWie's light, and then rowed back to the city about mid- 



24 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

night with a bushel of eels, weighing from nothing up to 
two pounds or more, for the larger eels are not so easily 
captured in this way, their weight tearing them loose in 
the air. 

The night was clear and starlit; bats circled about 
picking up insects here and there. Billy told me that 
they could be caught if I threw up my cap and said, "Bat, 
bat, come into my hat and I'll give you a pound of 
cheese." There was no room in the boat to do this, but 
I tried it afterward and didn't get any bats. A large bird 
flew just over our heads with slow and noiseless flaps, and 
Billy said something in Dutch. "What was that?" I 
asked. "They're bad, them things that fly at night a- 
making no noise, an' I doan' like 'em," and he took a little 
medicine for his lungs. The moon, a few days past the 
full, came up slowly just south of the spook-house barn, 
and Billy said if a bat flew across its face I must say: 

"Hookum skookum, 
Rollicum kookum, 

Holliche BoUiche, 
Baniche spookum." 

"Ef you don't," said he, "you'll go blind on the side 
next the moon." No bat crossed the moon that night to 
my knowledge, nor do I ever remember seeing one cross 
it; but the charm has been remembered and held in re- 
serve should such a thing happen, for no man cares to 
lose an eye when it can be so easily avoided by simply 
following the directions of a man so skilled in spook lore 
as Billy Bishop. 

This night we had fair success, and when Billy put me 
ashore he saw me safely home, only a few doors below, 
and said that he would send us up a lot of dressed eels for 
breakfast ; and he did. During the fishing Billy faithfully 



BILLY BISHOP. 25 

followed the directions of Dr. Getty and took his medicine 
frequently, as I could testify; but he did not seem to be 
as disgusted with it as I was when the same doctor pre- 
scribed his great tablespoonful doses for me. I men- 
tioned this fact to mother, and she said that Mr. Bishop 
was older and more accustomed to medicine, and knew 
the importance of following the doctor's orders better 
than I. No doubt mother was right, but I can't help 
thinking that what Dr. Getty gave Billy must have tasted 
better to him than what he gave me ; but I was young. 

Several times afterward Billy Bishop took me with 
him when he went eeling. Mr, John Ruyter, the tanner, 
said it was because Billy was afraid to go alone, but it is 
possible that a luncheon which mother left on the table 
for us on our return may have had its influence. Father 
said that Billy was not good company for a boy, and be- 
sides that, "It would be better for Fred to stay at home 
and read or study instead of being out bobbing for eels ; 
his mind runs too much on such foolishness." But 
mother argued that a boy must have some fun and could 
not study all the time, and Billy Bishop was a kind- 
hearted man who had never done anything wrong, and 
the result was that we had eels for breakfast many times. 

Billy occasionally played the fiddle for dances, not for 
the balls and parties of the more fashionable sort, but just 
dances, where the musician did not become wealthy all at 
once. I was too young to know much of this, but once 
he told me in a low voice, while putting on a fresh bob 
when the water was warm and the old one was spoiled, 
that he had played for a dance a few nights before, and 
the big boys had been "pizen mean. They asked me out 
for 'freshments an' I laid down my fiddle an' bow, an' 
when I come back they'd sawed that bow 'cross a candle 
an' it was that greasy that it sp'iled the strings, an' I was 



26 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

done fur the night. Who done it I do'no, but there was Bill 
Fairchild, John Stranahan, Pole Sherwood an' a lot on 
*em there, an' they made out like they was awful sorry." 

Poor Bill Fairchild in after years died of burns re- 
ceived while rescuing the books from the burning freight 
house of the B. & A. R. R., for which he was a book- 
keeper; the others have gone to rest with old Billy, and no 
more will they grease his bow nor pour water in his fiddle 
when he goes ov;t for " 'freshments ;" but I was told that 
Billy learned Zc take his fiddle and bow with him when 
called from labor. The humor of these things did not 
strike Billy in the least. This was evident when he asked 
me: "Now, what fun was ther' in that? They hed to pay 
me fur the evenin', and it stopped the dancin'. I tell ye 
there was folks there that was mad, but, bless ye, they 
couldn't find out who done it. No one done it. It done 
itself! They tried to make me believe it was spooks, but 
spooks don't come to dances where folks is ; they catches 
you all alone, in the dark." 

Some years later, probably about 1845, when a large 
country store was kept in the brick building on the corner 
of Columbia street and Broadway, and in great letters 
announced "I. Fly, Headquarters," there was a large shad 
seine being knit in the hotel of Isaac Fryer, just above. 
About a dozen men had an interest in it, and they knit 
away every evening, Billy Bishop and Jakey Van Hoesen 
being busy filHng the needles with twine. I somehow 
used to drop in there and knit a little early in the evening, 
but the men stayed late. No one went down Broadway 
except Billy, and Mr. Fly would have a man or two in 
waiting to scare him. Sometimes a few stones rolled 
after him would be enough to start him on a run ; at others 
"spooks" would spring at him from the churchyard, and 
although the victim may have been well fortified with 



BILLY BISHOP. 27 

Fryer's "Hollands," his starting for home required the 
courage of a Tarn o' Shanter, which he did not possess. 
He would go up street with friends and around the back 
way until his tormentors found it out, and in despair Billy 
told the story of his persecutions, when he was furnished 
with an escort and saw no more spooks. 

Once he confided to me a great secret: If the. eels 
don't bite good," said he, ''just go to a stable and look 
over the horses' legs. You'll find a scab on the inside of 
every leg, and when this is big and comes off easy ]ust 
take it and put it in your bob and the eels '11 come a long 
way to get at it; it is powerful strong, an' they can smell 

it for miles." 

"Why don't we use it in our bobs?" 

"We don't need it; they bite well enough as it is; we 
don't want all the eels in the river; what could we do with 

so many?" ^ . , t j 

That was sufficient, and if the thing was ever tried I do 
not know. Perhaps the idea originated in Billy's brain 
or was told to him by some joker, yet it is possible that 
the very powerful odor of that gland would either attract 
or repel the fish in a decided manner. Let some eel bob- 
ber try it and report to Forest and Stream. My time for 
bobbing passed years ago, but if opportunity offers I will 
try it tentatively in the interest of knowledge. 

Once the shad seiners of the village had arranged to 
make some hauls at the lower end of the island which lies 
opposite Albany, and Billy had brought up his little boat 
the night before and left it at the ferry where "Old Josey, 
the ferryman, kept his skiff for late night service after the 
steamboat had finished the day and the horse-boat had 
carried the early night passengers. The fact became 
known to "Pop" Huyler, the blacksmith; Charley Brad- 
bury, the livery man, and Steve Miles, the carpenter. 



28 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

After some deliberation and discussion of the case they 
decided that a short piece of board, fastened edgewise to 
the under side of the keel and at an angle of about forty- 
five degrees to its length, would be about the best thing 
that could be done at the time. Bradbury finished the 
board and Miles affixed it, and the boat was placed in the 
water with the improved combination centreboard and 
rudder. The big scow came up the river bearing the 
great seine on a platform over its stern, and four stalwart 
oarsmen made her stem the current past the ferry. A 
crowd had assembled when Billy appeared with a pair of 
oars on his shoulder, and casting loose the painter shoved 
off his boat, put the oars in position and began to row. 
The boat seemed bewitched, for it kept going round in a 
circle, no matter how the oarsman tried to keep it straight, 
and Billy, pale as a ghost, dropped his oars and was evi- 
dently praying in Dutch. The boat drifted near the dock 
below, when Pop Huyler kindly called to the old man to 
throw him the rope; he did so, and Billy was safe, but 
weak and faint. 

"Must ha' been spooks in the boat last night, Billy," 
said Pop. 

"Yes," he replied, "I 'spect so; might a know'd there'd 
be bad luck, fur a hen crowed yestidy an' the fust man I 
see this mornin' was cross-eyed." 

"Sure," said Charley Bradbury, "that's enough to 
bring bad luck; but, Billy, come up to Brockway's tavern 
and take something, and say that Dutch prayer once 
more, and that'll fix 'em all right." 

While Billy was repeating the exorcising words Miles 
got help and pulled the boat on the dock and ripped off 
the board, launched the boat, and then, after much per- 
suasion, Billy tried it again; and behold! the spell of the 
witches, spooks and other evil-doers was broken, and 



BILLY BISHOP. 29 

Billy, with great good humor, joined the party just in time 
to help haul on the line as the seine boat reached the 
shore, fully convinced that, while spooks might tempor- 
arily annoy him, he could triumph over them in the end. 
Old Vose, who played the clarionette in the band on top 
of Fly's "headquarters," heard of it, and got Billy to re- 
peat the verse which could so undo the work of witches; 
and as neither Billy nor he could write. Bill Fairchild vol- 
unteered to act as amanuensis, and what he wrote no man 
knows, for when Vose asked his landlady to read it for 
him she became angry and burned the paper. No doubt 
but her method was a good one, for no one ever heard 
that Billy's boat was ever bewitched again. 

Poor old Billy! He died after I left the place, and is 
remembered by very few. Spooks can no longer chase 
him at night, grease his fiddle-bow, nor obstruct his boat. 
The hills have at last come together above him, but he is 
safe. 



JOHN ATWOOD. 

FIRST NIGHT IN CAMP. 

LOOKED at from later years John was not a bad 
boy, neither was he a good boy, but just one of 
those ne'er-do-wells that could not be kept in 
school nor out of the woods. He was long of leg and 
could tell where most of the birds' nests were within a 
circle of two miles, with the schoolhouse as a centre. His 
acquirements at school dwarfed beside his knowledge of 
the best "fishin' holes," and some parents I knew did not 
look upon John as a desirable companion for a younger 
boy. He was some three years my senior, and his knowl- 
edge of the country roads, and of the birds, beasts and 
fishes made him easily a leader of boys who had a taste 
for such things. 

It was long after Reuben Wood had shown me how 
to fish that I sat on the railroad dock fishing with a pole 
and float, for the Albany & Boston Railroad had invaded 
the village, coming down between the present site of the 
' Episcopal Church and the district school to where the 
lower bridge to Albany now spans the Hudson, and it 
made a good fishing place for boys. John Atwood came 
there that Saturday morning and sneered at my tackle. 

"Yes," said he, "that's the way Reub Wood fishes, but 
there ain't no fun in it, for you h'ist 'em out too quick 
with a pole; throw that away and take off yer float, rig 
yer sinker below the hooks, and when you get a fish haul 
him in hand under hand and feel him wiggle all the way 
in — that's sport!" John's advice was followed and ap- 
proved, the heavy sinker, with two or three hooks pendant 

30 



JOHN ATWOOD. 31 

above it, was swung around two or three times, and away 
it went with a plunk, and a new style of fishing was ac- 
quired, much to Reuben's disgust; but the majority of the 
boys about Greenbush seemed to prefer this mode. The 
fish that we took in the Hudson then were white and yel- 
low perch, bullheads, shiners, eels, spawn-eaters (which 
were small minnows), and an occasional sucker; but John 
knew of the mud creek and the dead creek, a couple of 
miles down the river, where the fish were larger and more 
plentiful. The "dead creek" was a short inlet from the 
river running only a few hundred yards into the island, 
but the "mud creek," as we boys called it, was some five 
miles long and formed the island; this was the bayou 
which we knew later as the "Popskinny." 

One Friday morning, while on the way to school, John 
was met. Tv/o boys were with him, and they were on 
the way to the mud creek with all equipments. It was 
in the spring of the year, and John said : 

"Come along and have some good fishin' ; I wouldn't 
go to school when the fish are biting as they are now. 
We are going to stay till Sunday night, and have three 
days' fishin' and birds'-nestin'. Come along; you're a 
fool if you don't." 

"Where will you sleep?" 

"In Rivenburg's barn, in the hay; it's good and warm, 
and we got lots o' grub an' lines." 

Here was temptation in very strong shape, but the 
consequences loomed up. His mother was a widow, 

mine was not. I could square it with mother, but . 

After some debate the books were left at the schoolhouse, 
a hasty note written to mother, saying that I would be 
home Sunday night, and we went. 

Such fun! John cooked fish over coals of fire, we 
covered ourselves in the hay at night, and the crickets 



32 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

sang weird songs, the bats flapped about, the frogs sung 
and the owls hooted. Surely this beat Robinson Crusoe 
all hollow, for he was all alone for a while. This was life 
of an ideal kind. Sunday night, when a reckoning might 
be made, seemed too far off for consideration. The pres- 
ent life was perfect ! 

We made explorations across the bottom lands and up 
the wooded hills, saw wild pigeons, and John wished for 
a gun; chipmunks, squirrels, birds of kinds new to most 
of us, but which John could name, and a rabbit! Here 
was big game indeed, and when John oracularly said, 
"School is a fool to this place," there was no dissenting 
voice, and all regretted when the time came to depart. 
We had more fish than we could carry, and only took the 
freshest and best, and toiled wearily homeward, one in 
the party at least dreading the arrival. What mother said 
over the torn clothes and spoiled shoes we will not repeat, 
but when father invited me to a conference in the wood- 
shed she said: "Joseph, I have punished him severely, and 
he has promised never to go ofif again without permission ; 
and he should not be punished twice for the same of- 
fence." A look of disappointment crossed father's face; 
he evidently missed something that he had mentally 
promised himself and me, but, as I told John Atwood 
next day: "Mother spanked hard with her slipper, but it 
was nothing to what she saved me from ;" and John agreed 
that it happened just right. "But," said he, "we are going 
there next Friday for three days more of it; will you go?" 

"No, I can't; I must go to school." 

"Ask yer mother; she'll let you." 

"Not now; father would object; wait a little later, and 
I'll join you there on some Saturday." And I often did. 

As near as memory serves, I was about eleven years 
old when John proposed that I join him and another boy 



JOHN ATWOOD. 33 

in the purchase of a gun, which could be bought for $1.50. 
It was an old flintlock musket that had been altered to 
percussion, and we bought it. A grand hunt was ar- 
ranged, and off we went. By drawing lots it was decided 
that I was the first to carry the gun until game was shot 
at, and then it was to be passed to the next. No knight 
who, after watching his armor alone all night, girded it 
on for the first time to engage in tournament or battle, 
was prouder than I at shouldering the musket after John 
had loaded it; nor did Natty Bumpo ever scan the dis- 
tance for sign of Mingo keener than my eyes penetrated 
each bush and thicket for game. At last I saw it! We 
were in a road between two rail fences, and the game was 
in plain sight a few feet beyond a fence. Slowly I crept 
up after John had cocked the gun until the fence offered 
a rest, and the game appeared unconscious — a tribute to 
my cautious approach. Surely I was destined to be a 
mighty hunter! Be still, my heart, your beating may 
destroy my aim! The game was fully ten feet from the 
muzzle and deliberation was necessary. A long sighting 
of the gun, and the trigger was pulled. "Hurrah ! I killed 
him! I killed him!" and jumping the fence I picked up 
what had been a beautiful little summer yellowbird which 
had been picking the seed from a thistle-top, wholly un- 
conscious of danger, but now a stringy mass of flesh, bone 
and feathers. Reviewing this feat in more mature life, it 
looks this way: "If some kind-hearted man had then ap- 
peared and taken that gun and broken it on the fence, 
and then whaled me with the ramrod, he might have 
taught me that the life of that little bird was as valuable 
to him, and perhaps to the world, as my own, and it had 
been killed to serve no useful purpose. Oh! ye unthink- 
ing fathers who use guns for what we call legitimate 
sport, do not give your boy a gun. A boy is a savage. 



34 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

I was one — an unthinking savage, who would take life 
without other reason than the pleasure of taking it. Re- 
member this : You can carry a gun all day without shoot- 
ing anything except what you consider game; but a boy 
is bloodthirsty, and his desire to kill is at once intensified 
when the means are at hand. As a boy I did my share 
of killing every living thing I saw, whether of use to me 
or not, and most boys will do the same. Once I wrote: 
"Don't give a boy a gun until he is ninety years old, and 
then fit him out and tell him to shoot at every swallow, 
bat or chipmunk that he may meet." Bless me, how I 
have preached over that little yellowbird! 

John could bwild bird cages, and in the spring we 
would wade through the wet grass of the meadows to trap 
bobolinks, which we sold. He was most successful in 
rearing robins, thrushes and other young birds taken 
from the nest, while most boys lost theirs. Later we used 
to shoot wild pigeons in the spring and fall flights, and 
with our old musket would bring back from a dozen to a 
hundred birds in a day, with an occasional snipe, squirrel 
or rabbit. In winter we set spring poles and box traps 
for rabbits, and within four years from our first fishing 
scrape we knew the whole country within a radius of ten 
miles from Greenbush on the east side of the river. My 
father was a stern, strict business man, at that time part 
owner in, and Albany agent of, the Eckford line of tow- 
boats, having three steamboats and many barges plying 
to New York, for then the canal boats came no further 
east than Albany. Thirty years later, when John Atwood 
was dead, father told me that he once put John in charge 
of one of his barges; but he would not attend to business, 
and he had to discharge him and then give him a subordi- 
nate place. "Confound him," said father, "he has no 
sense of responsibility; he is sober and capable, but would 



JOHN ATWOOD. 35 

just as soon be a deckhand as to be captain." He had 
John's measure to the fraction of an inch. John worked 
because he was forced to do it', if by diHgently applying 
himself for a year he could attain a competency, he would 
have said, "I would rather go a-fishin'." 

I have said that John was a long-legged boy. He was 
also a very quiet fellow — never in any boyish fights or 
troubles. These qualities commended him to Mr. Charles 
Crouch, a harness-maker and superintendent of the Meth- 
odist Sunday-school, and John was in demand for the 
May anniversary to carry the centre pole of the banner, 
while two shorter boys steadied the corners with cord and 
tassel. "Jine the Sunday-school," said John to me; "I'll 
get you to hold a corner of the banner, and we will get the 
first whack at the refreshments when we stop in Albany." 
I "jined," and at the first meeting there was a pathetic 
appeal for funds for missionaries, and I chipped in the 
only sixpence I had, and which John and I had figured to 
spend in this way: six fish-hooks at Cosliy Lansing's, 2 
cents; ten knots of blue-fish line at Tom Simmond's, 2 
cents; lead at Pop Huyler's blacksmith shop, 2 cents, 
"And you went and threw that to the heathen," said John. 
"Who are the heathen?" he asked. "What do you care 
about the heathen that you give 'em your last cent? I 
thought you had some sense! Now we've got to make a 
raise to get some fishin' tackle in the mornin' just because 
you are a blamed fool ! I only go to Sunday-school just 
before anniversary so as to get in on the refreshments; 
they don't get no sixpence out of me. Why, them heathen 
is all right; they're satisfied to be heathen, an' I'm willin'." 
I had done wrong and felt abashed in the presence of a 
superior mind, and to-day I regret the donation of that 
coin, for John's closing argument is good. 

The "nut orchard" lay just out of the village and con- 



36 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

sisted of something like a hundred trees of shell-bark 
hickory, straight of stem and tall. It belonged to Glen 
Van Rensselaer, a man of middle age then, who watched it 
as well as he could in the nut season ; but we boys always 
had a sentinel out when foraging, and his shabby old silk 
hat in the distance was a signal to gather the plunder and 
leave, in order to avoid confiscation of the results of our 
labor. There had not been frost enough to drop the nuts, 
and several of us who were strong and active climbed the 
trees and shook the limbs while smaller boys gathered 
the nuts. A sentinel had just called, "Here comes Glen!" 
when there was a scream and a thud, and a poor little 
Irish boy, named Ryan, was lying on his back. We were 
crying around him when Mr. Van Rensselaer arrived on 
a run to catch us. The boy's head was bleeding and his 
brain protruding, but he breathed. We gave him water, 
and a passing hand-car on the railroad took him down to 
John Morris' rope-walk, where his people lived. He died 
next day. Most of the boys were shy of the nut orchard 
that fall. The place is now filled with cottages, but the 
name is retained. The "Indian orchard" is also gone, 
and not an apple tree is left to hold the nest of a flying- 
squirrel or a woodpecker. 

West of the nut orchard some acres of pasture were 
plentifully sprinkled with hawthorn bushes, which, by the 
way, were called "thorn-apple bushes," and among these 
were many of the big paper nests of the bald-faced hornet. 
What fun it was, with John as the leader, to advance in 
line, a cedar bush in the left elbow and as many stones as 
the forearm would hold against the body and a big stone 
in the right hand. "Fire!" cried John, and the stones 
flew in rapid succession; and when all were gone the 
enemy was upon us. Then how we retreated, swinging 
the bushes about our heads, and how an occasional yell 



JOHN ATWOOD. 37 

would announce the wounded! Fun? It was the very- 
height of fun, with its spice of danger, without which 
some one has said there is no sport. Those who know 
the bald-faced hornet know that he is as swift as a hum- 
ming-bird and carries a poniard that for penetration and 
venom discounts a bumblebee or any other stinger with 
wings, and this reminds me : John Atwood and I had been 
away beyond Bath after berries, when we passed a house 
that stood only a few feet from the road. In front, just 
inside the picket fence, stood a tall pear tree, well loaded. 
"Them's nice pears," said John, disdaining all grammat- 
ical rules; "le's have some." A study of the situation 
showed that I could easily mount the tree, shake it, and 
drop about ten feet in the road, and if the people in the 
house were aroused John would be off with what pears he 
could get outside the fence. I shook. Hard, burning 
things struck my face, and I saw the nest of a colony of 
bald-faced hornets within a foot of my head. Something 
dropped — it was I, and I dropped running. Oh, the agony 
of eleven stings on head, face and neck, and the swollen 
face of a boy whom his mother did not know an hour 
later! Days in bed and a doctor seem a trifle now. The 
pears were not good and John Atwood did not get a sting. 
To-day, in 1896, it seems as if it was my mission to volun- 
teer if there were hard knocks to be got, while some other 
fellow got the pears. But this is a most common case, 
and we see that same sort of a fellow every day; and in the 
economy of nature he is a necessity to the fellow who 
gets the pears without the stings. 

John taught me how to snare the brook suckers with a 
noose of copper wire on the end of a pole. Brass wire 
was too stiff, he said, and horsehair was not stiff enough. 
We would get above the fish and drift the open loop so as 
to inclose him, and when it was about his middle a smart 



38 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

jerk landed him on the bank. If the current took the 
snare one side and the fish was not disturbed we would try- 
it over. 

Once we walked down the track of the Boston Rail- 
road to Kinderhook Lake to fish for pickerel through the 
ice, after planning the campaign for weeks, and we carried 
knapsacks filled with camping goods of more or less util- 
ity. We got a fish, and took a rabbit and three grouse 
from the snares of some poacher, and had a good time, all 
of which was written up for Forest and Stream of January 
3, 1889, as a "Christmas Reminiscence." The great won- 
der to me then and now was where John learned all the 
mysteries which he unfolded to me. He never told this, 
and perhaps his air of mystery helped to magnify his 
knowledge. He did not consort with Port Tyler, the 
local Natty Bumpo, who lived by rod, gun and traps; for 
Port was a solitary man, and later, when I was taken as 
an occasional companion by Port, he once said: "John 
Atwood can't stick to one thing nor one place long 
enough to do anything at hunting; he runs all over, and, 
durn him! he spoiled some good pa'tridge ground for me 
once." This remark was a little foggy, but the impres- 
sion was that John had interfered with some fences and 
snares that Porter had set; but it was only an impression, 
for no more was said. Perhaps the snares that we took 
the grouse from were Port's! Port's remark fitted John 
in other respects than hunting. A job in John Ruyter's 
tannery, grinding bark, in Ring's "white mill," or in Her- 
rick's distillery, feeding cattle, was not kept long. My 
father's estimate of him was a just one, but of the boys 
that I knew in youth few have a warmer spot in my mem- 
ory than John Atwood. 

Among the boys of Greenbush was one named Philip 
Spencer, who came from Hudson, and at one time was a 



JOHN ATWOOD. 39 

schoolmate of my oldest brother, Harleigh. His father 
was the Secretary of War in President Tyler's Cabinet in 
1841. Young Spencer had a copy of "The Pirates' Own 
Book," and left it with one of the village boys with the 
remark, "Keep this until you hear that I am a pirate;" and 
through his father he was appointed midshipman in the 
Navy in November, 1841. He planned a mutiny on the 
U. S. brig Somers, was discovered, and with two others 
was tried by summary court-martial and hanged at the 
yardarm on December i, 1842. This book passed around 
among the boys of the village for years, until John At- 
wood loaned it to me. It had pictures of heroic pirates, 
with belts well stufifed with pistols, boarding merchant- 
men and putting the crew to the sword or making them 
walk the plank, and it had in it Spencer's autograph and 
newspaper slips of his execution. My mother found it in 
my trunk, and after making me tell where I got it, took it 
to Mrs, Atwood with the request that no more books of 
that character be loaned to her son, John said : "It was a 
fool book, anyway, and there was no fun in sinking ships 
and killing people." And here again we can agree with 
John. 

An old darkey who had been a cook for my father in 
his young days, when he was a sloop captain on the Hud- 
son, had smallpox, and father fitted up a room for him in 
the barn, and John Atwood volunteered to attend him, 
and stayed by him until he was out of danger. As I have 
said, John may not have been a good boy, but he was not 
a bad one. Idle, shiftless and lazy? Yes, if you will, but 
that is a combination to get much out of life, in a way. 
John may have been "shiftless," but legs that followed 
him on a day's tramp would deny the charge of laziness. 
It would be fairer to say that he could only apply himself 
to things which interested him. That is my latter-day 



40 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

summing up of his character. Men who think that the 
accumulation of money by continuous industry is the 
main thing in Hfe have always decried those who did not 
follow their precepts and examples, but there are other 
standards of life than those of old Ben Franklin, who 
thought that a boy or man should work like Gehenna and 
never spend a cent. John Atwood followed the bent of 
his inclination, and was happy when he did not have to 
work at uncongenial labor; yet who could be more ener- 
getic at removing a stone heap and digging out a rabbit? 

As he approached manhood the necessity of labor that 
was more remunerative gradually pressed upon him, and 
the day came when John had to leave the birds and the 
fish in their haunts and take a place as fireman on a rail- 
road locomotive. The engine which startled the wood 
duck from the lily pads had to be fed with great pieces of 
wood, and the puffing monster drowned the song of the 
bobolink and the whistle of the quail. John never could 
have loved such a noisy, obnoxious thing. One winter 
day about thirty years ago his engine stood at a side track 
at Poughkeepsie; the boiler burst, and the mangled body 
of John Atwood was thrown far out upon the ice of the 
river. As I read the account of it in a distant land the 
thought came : Who will say to the boys, "A flock of geese 
went north yesterday and the fish ought to bite good 
now," or "The bluebirds are building in our pear tree an' 
it's time to go in a-swimmin' "? Who, indeed? 

The geese have gone north many times since, and the 
bluebirds nested in their old home until the aged tree 
broke and left only a stump, which I saw last year when 
on a pilgrimage to the place; but the poor, torn and shape- 
less thing which the Coroner took from the ice no longer 
notes the seasons by the coming and the nesting of the 
birds. 



PORTER TYLER. 

MY EARLY TEACHER OF WOODCRAFT. 

AT first Old Port Tyler was a far-off and almost 
mythical person. He appeared vaguely in the 
stories of older boys who had really seen him, al- 
ways in connection with fish and game. Garry Van 
O'Linda had seen him cross the ferry to Albany with a 
lot of rabbits and partridges, and Charley Melius saw him 
with a great load of wild pigeons ; but to me he was a mys- 
terious person who lived by fishing, shooting and trap- 
ping. A man rowed a light boat around Dow's Point 
and John Atwood said: "That's Old Port; he's been down 
the dead crick after snipe," and here was the real live man 
at last, but his mysterious and poetical life seemed as far 
off as ever. A most ideal life to me, and he was at once 
enthroned among my collection of idols, which then in- 
cluded Davy Crockett, Daniel Boone, Baron Trenck, 
Natty Bumpo and Charles XII. of Sweden. These men 
I had not seen, but Port Tyler had passed Dow's Point 
before my eyes, and his boat may have contained untold 
numbers of snipe and countless fish. 

Gradually it was learned that he was a bachelor and 
lived alone near the red mill — "Mechanic street" they call 
it now; then it was "up by Fred Aiken's woods," and they 
said that he had huts and caves all over the country and 
lived in them when he pleased. These stories, and the 
fact that a lunatic named Asher Cone had a hut back of 
Harrowgate Spring and chased the boys with a club when 
he saw them, added mystery and perhaps a bit of awe to 
the personality of Old Port. In my own case this was 
true, and at the age of twelve I never even hoped for per- 
sonal acquaintance with a man whom I placed higher 

41 



42 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

than the rulers of kingdoms — for he was my ideal of the 
highest form of manhood. I may as well say right here 
that this was my ideal fifteen years later, and was lived up 
to as closely as possible; personal freedom from dictation 
by others, a love of nature, and, above all, a sense of per- 
fect independence, caused me to cast civilization aside, 
and — whisper it — after six years return, not a prodigal, 
but, like him, with a flag of truce in the rear, which the 
small boy terms "a letter in the post-office." 

The pigeons were flying well one October day, and I 
had about twenty. They were in scattered flocks seeking 
mast, and my neck was stifif from looking upward for 
them. Often a dozen would start from a tree where none 
was seen, and a wing shot was not possible, if I had been 
capable of it. Resting on a log and watching the open 
for a flight to come, and, like Irving's skipper, who guided 
his craft up the Hudson, "thinking of nothing in the past, 
the present or the future," I suddenly became aware that 
a man stood beside me. The leaves were damp from a 
two days' rain, a high-hole was drumming away on an old 
stub near by, and a couple of bluejays were scolding about 
something — perhaps about men — and, being intent on 
watching for pigeons to come my way, the whole com- 
bination favored a silent approach that a falling shadow 
was the first intimation of. The stranger said : 

"There's a big flock feedin' on beechnuts over there in 
Teller's woods, an' they may come this way; there's some- 
body just south of 'em, 'cause the crows all left there a- 
hollerin'." 

He was a small man, rather thin, but wiry, clothing 
not noticeable except a little faded, a keen gray eye and 
a light double gun were the first impressions made by the 
speaker. For young men it might be well to say that all 
guns in those days were muzzle-loaders, and that the use 



PORTER TYLER. 43 

of single-barrelled guns was so common that the excep- 
tion was a matter of remark ; therefore the fact that he car- 
ried a "double-barrelled gun" was duly noted. I told him 
that I had been through Teller's woods an hour before, 
but only found a few pigeons there and got but three of 
them. 

"The big flock was down to the crick for water, then," 
said he, "and I saw 'em rise and go into the woods, about 
three or four hundred of 'em in the flock ; and they haven't 
left yet. You can stay here and get a few shots if they 
come this way, as they will be likely to if that man over 
south of 'em gets among 'em. I'll work off to the east'ard 
and get beyond 'em if that man don't start 'em first," and 
he moved ofif and was soon lost in the underbrush. He 
was a man I had never seen before, and the incident was 
only called to mind when, out after rabbits in the winter, 
on Crehan's farm above the mill-pond, in jumping a little 
stream I landed near a man who was skinning a mink. It 
was the stranger of the pigeon hunt, and instinctively 
came the knowledge that this was the mysterious woods- 
man of whom so much had been heard. To my surprise 
he knew who I was, and said: "Oh, yes, I've often seen 
you down the crick and in the woods, and when I saw the 
gun you carried I knew it belonged to your brother Har- 
leigh, for he told me that you had it most ev'ry day when 
you were out of school." 

This was the first mink I had ever seen, and I watched 
the skinning, which went very well until the tail was 
reached, and this could not be skinned far because the 
skin was so tight. We talked until he had finished, set 
his steel trap and gathered his skins, and went on with the 
hides of two minks and six muskrats — a very good morn- 
ing's work. Truly he was not now "mysterious;" he was 
no longer a half mythical person, but a real, live man, and 



44: MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

to me a most interesting one, whom I hoped to know 
much better. 

In the spring, perhaps of 1848 or '49, just after the ice 
had left the river and the creeks, a party of us boys went 
down the island creek, as we called it, Popskinny, or Pop- 
squinea, as it appears on maps, to fish. It was merely an 
arm of the river which crooked out and in again, making 
an island some four or five miles long, beginning a couple 
of miles below Greenbush, The water was cold yet, but 
the hardy yellow perch were astir and the creek was full 
of them. A railroad has filled the creek in where it crosses 
and the water is shallow to-day, and but few fish go in it 
now. There had been a few perch and bullheads taken 
when Old Port came rowing a light scow down the creek. 
Some one said that he had gill nets for herring set further 
down, and this was a way of taking fish that I wanted to 
see; so, when he stopped to ask, "What luck?" I got per- 
mission to get in his boat and go with him. Two nets, 
each about one hundred feet long and four feet deep, were 
stretched across the creek, and had been there all night. 
I helped raise them, and it was such fun! To-day it 
would not be fun ; we take such different views of a thing 
at different times of life. He took perhaps a bushel of 
perch, half as many suckers and some 200 "herrin'," as 
the alewife is called up the Hudson. "The perch an' suck- 
ers ain't worth much," said he; "about ten cents a string 
of a dozen or fifteen, accordin' to size; but the herrin' 
fetches $2 per 100 as early as this; when they begin to 
catch 'em in the river they drop to half that price, and by 
May I they are so plenty and cheap that I don't bother 
with 'em. At this time, you see, the people want to eat 
'em fresh, and they're fine; but later they are spawning, 
and are only fit for saltin' down." This was the financial 
part of Port's herring fishing. I went in his boat with 



PORTER TYLER. 45 

him to the nets many times, even as late as 1868, when he 
was a man of fifty-eig^ht and I of thirty-five, for he asked 
me to his house and I became intimate with him from that 
first trip to the nets. 

"It's a cur'us thing," he said on one of these trips, "to 
know how the herrin' get past these gill nets that reach 
from shore to shore and from top to bottom ; but they do. 
Last night I set my two about one hundred yards above 
two of Cutty Carson's, and when I got through settin' 
them there was Lon Crandell settin' his above mine; but 
I'll get about as many herrin' as they will, yet I can't see 
how the fish get past the first net. They don't jump 'em, 
for I have watched all night to see if they jump the cork- 
line. As far as that is concerned, I'd just as soon have 
my nets in the middle as anywhere else." This is a puz- 
zle — a greater one even than how the shad get up the 
Hudson past drifting gill nets and staked ones, to be 
caught by the seiners of the upper river; but these do not 
reach from bank to bank and from surface to bottom, as 
the nets in the Popsquinea did. 

He it was who first attracted my attention to the breed- 
ing habits of fish. We were trolling minnows for pike 
down this creek; the water had fallen and left strings of 
perch eggs hanging to the bushes above the water. "Por- 
ter," said I, for the days were getting long and permitted 
the occasional use of his proper name, "there must be mil- 
lions of perch eggs left to die that way every year; I 
should suppose instinct would teach the fish not to spawn 
high up during a freshet." 

"Well, a yellow perch is a dull kind of a fish, and don't 
know as much as a herrin'. When a flood comes and 
covers all these bottom lands the herrin' go all over them, 
but the minute the water begins to fall they scoot for the 
creek and seem to find the ditches leading to it; and they 



46 MEN I 'HAVE EI SHED WITH. 

don't spawn on the flats, but among drift stuff; their egg's 
are separate, and stick fast to what they touch. These 
strings of perch eggs are not fast to the limbs, but are 
just hung over 'em with both ends down. I have put lots 
of 'em back in the water. Maybe it's of no use, for there's 
plenty of 'em and they ain't o' much account. It's cur'us, 
though, to watch 'em spawn. I've seen 'em spawn in my 
nets when I've been watching at night with a lantern. 
When they are first laid they come out small, and there's 
nothin' in 'em until the he one goes over 'em, and then 
they swell up as big a mass as the fish that laid 'em." 

When we came to his net he showed me perch nearly 
ripe, and stripped a ripe male. I took perch eggs that 
day — in 1867 — and hatched them in the State Geological 
rooms on State street, Albany, by permission of Dr. Hall, 
the curator, and through my intimacy with this observant 
field naturalist I became a fishculturist and made it a life 
work. 

There was a gap of some nine years in my intercourse 
with Porter, as I spent the years 1854-60 in the West and 
parts of 1862-65 in the army; but the old man gave me a 
warm welcome, "For," said he, "I liked you because you 
took so much interest in all the live things, even if they 
were no-account things." I never saw him after 1868. 
He died at his home, which he owned, in 1882, aged 
seventy-two years. Some of the Albany shooting men 
thought him an old poacher because he sold much of his 
game, and they said that he snared partridges (ruffed 
grouse); and it may be that he did; I can't say; but to me 
he was a kind friend and instructor of my boyhood in 
things of interest, if not of usefulness. He was one of 
those real outdoor observers, and the kind of naturalist 
with whom the modes of feeding and habits of birds, 
beasts and fishes take the first place, while of their struc- 



PORTER TYLER. ^"^ 



ture he knew little more than an outside view of fur, fin 
and feather gave him; yet his knowledge of many things 
was far beyond what a scientific education could have 
o-iven him Not that I wish to underrate such an educa- 
tion, or to speak slightingly of it, for it is of very great 
value • but it is a fact that with most of our biologists struc- 
ture and comparative anatomy are the beginmng and end 
of their knowledge of animal life, and a day spent wiUi 
Port Tyler would have opened up a new chap er to them 
Such a day might also have been of use to that class of 
sportsmen who are mere butchers and measure the pleas- 
ures of an outing by the amount of slaughter they have 
done, and whose only knowledge of nature is where cer- 
tain kinds of game could be found at certain seasons 

A man who, when out shooting, would stop, lean h s 
gun against a tree and spend half an hour watching a little 
fhipmunk dig his hole, has higher tastes than a mere 
game butcher, and Port Tyler did that one day when I 
fan across him in the Indian Orchard. 'Tt s cur'us^.ow 
he does it," he remarked, "and because you don t find the 
dirt piled up about the hole they say he begins to dig a 
the bottom; your brother Harleigh told me that, bu I 
think he was joking." This last by way of apology, for 
his sense of humor was not keen, and he did not always 
realize the fact that some people would trifle with such 
questions, and that his innocent and unsuspecting nature 
•nvTted just such remarks as the above. 'That little cuss 
is cute," he said; "he leaves a clean hole between two 
roots, with no sign that he has been diggm . But Har- 
leigh is wrong; he begins at the top and carries the dirt 
away in his cheeks, and drops it when he gets far enough 
so that it won't attract attention. Maybe when he gets 
down he can pack it one side into some hollow and save 
labor He ran off when you came, and there he is on 



48 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

that fence there by Cassin's house, jerkin' his tail because 
he is mad at you for coming here to stop his work." He 
knew that the Httle ground squirrel was a "chipmunk" 
and stored its food under the protecting roots of trees, and 
by observation had learned how it dug a hole without 
leaving outside evidence of it, even though he knew noth- 
ing of its anatomy. 

Port's great fur harvest sometimes came in midwinter, 
but always in early spring, by a "January thaw," and 
surely in April. The ice never melts in the Hudson about 
Albany, but is broken up by floods when the snow melts 
in the upper country or in the Mohawk Valley, and often 
goes out in great fields, nearly two feet thick, which crowd 
on top of each other and break by the overhanging 
weight. Grounding on shallows just above Castleton, 
which bar in the river the Dutch knew as the "Over- 
slaugh," the water is dammed and floods the lower parts 
of Albany so that boats can often float up Broadway as 
far as State street, and all the flats and bottom lands on 
both sides of the river are several feet under water, often 
for weeks or until the ice dam breaks. The muskrats of 
that region have been so accustomed to this state of 
things that they rarely build houses, as in other parts of 
the country, although I have seen an occasional house 
there; but houses being of no use in such events, the in- 
stinct to* build has been nearly lost. When the freshet 
comes the musquash is drowned out of the holes in the 
bank and seeks the piles of flotsam to hide among. Every 
gun in Greenbush and on the hills below is brought out, 
and everything in the shape of a boat that can be had is 
put into commission for the slaughter, and the roar of 
successive guns reminds a veteran of a skirmish line. 
Many men are shooting for profit, Old Port among them, 
but a larger number are out for fun and pile the rodents 



PORTER TYLER. 49 

in their boat to give to some one who will want them. In 
the early '50's there would be found a number who were 
shooting for fun and saving the animals for Porter. 
Among these were Colonel David A. Teller, James Mil- 
ler, Reuben and Ira Wood, Harleigh Mather, Godfrey 
Rhodes, Bill Fairchild, myself and about a dozen others. 
The result was that Port had to hire help to skin the ani- 
mals while he would stretch the hides. 

At this late day, with a memory hardly worth a hill of 
beans, it is not safe to make an estimate of the slaughter 
of muskrats during a freshet on the eastern shore of the 
Hudson River, between Dow's Point, which is less than 
two miles below Albany, and Castleton, which is nearly 
ten miles from the city. I had to go to school, sure, for 
my father knew well that only an iron hand could keep 
me there, and he had it; but two days in the week I 
claimed for rest and recreation. The latter I had, while 
the former was not needed. It was poor shooting when 
I did not pick up thirty muskrats in a day during a freshet, 
and men have killed as high as 200 in a day. Perhaps 
with about fifty gunners there was an average of thirty 
musquash each, which would count up to over 10,000 in a 
week! It seems too big a figure for eight miles on one 
side of a river, but the flats or bottoms were from a half 
to three-quarters of a mile wide, rich with alluvial deposit 
from each overflow and rank with vegetation along the 
river, the island creek and the ditches which drained the 
bottoms into the creek ; also our sociable little mammal is 
largely a vegetable feeder. With donations from his 
friends, in addition to his own gun, Port Tyler one year 
marketed over 2,000 muskrat skins, a few obtained by 
winter trapping, but mainly shot during the freshets. Just 
what these were worth at that time is forgotten ; all were 
not "prime" because of the shot holes, but they brought 



50 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

enough to keep this man of simple tastes until the fall sea- 
son, even if the spring run of "herring" were not consid- 
ered, and in addition to the winter's fur there was always 
a few mink and other skins, for he was not above taking in 
a prowling cat, as he said: "A common cat skin is not 
worth much, but when I've killed her the skin might as 
well be saved; and I kill 'em on principle, for they kill 
nesting partridges, rabbits, and every young song bird 
they can get hold of." 

Port once said to me that a game dealer, hotel keeper, 
or some other man, wanted him to shoot reedbirds in the 
fall. "Now, what do you suppose he called reedbirds?" 
he asked. "They're bobolinks in their fall gray coat — 
and that's goin' too far. I've shot blackbirds and snow- 
birds for market, and while I was a-shootin' 'em I thought 
it was small business compared to shootin' quail, pa'tridge 
an' rabbits; but when it comes to shootin' bobolinks, 
which makes the medders ring with song in the spring, 
I'll be durned ef I'll do it! You've ofifen seen a he bobo- 
link fly toward his mate an' then set his wings all a-trem- 
ble as he told her that she was the best she bobolink he 
ever see — and the music! I've ofifen sot and listened to 
him when I ought to be goin' on to my herrin' nets in the 
spring. Of course the bobolink gets gray in the fall, an' 
he looks just like a she one, but that's his natur', an' I ain't 
a-goin' to shoot him for market. I'd rather hear him 
sing, an', besides, he's too small to eat." 

I have always held this opinion, that it is a sin to kill 
this songster for the morsel of meat it has, and have con- 
sistently refused to touch "reedbirds" when they have 
been served at dinners. The bird is nearly extinct in the 
meadows which it once enlivened, and during a life of 
thirteen years on Long Island I have not seen a bobolink. 
Guns, guns, guns! I sometimes think it would be well if 



PORTER TYLER. 51 

gunpowder had never been made. The true game birds 
hold their own in many places fairly well — only men of 
intelligence can find them — but in the older settled re- 
gions the redheaded woodpecker has gone and the brown 
thrasher and bobolink have almost disappeared. The 
reason is a combination of gun and boy. 

Game that Port didn't sell he cooked for small parties 
at his house. He was a good cook, and when it was 
known that he had a few ruffed grouse on hand a supper 
party would be organized at once, and he would furnish 
everything but the liquors. He was a very temperate 
man and seldom used either wines or stronger stuff, and 
said that he did not care to sell it even if he had license to 
do so; but the jolly old cocks who were fond of his game 
suppers did not allow themselves to suffer on this account. 
I attended only one of these affairs, as I was rather young 
for that sort of thing; but I had been out after grouse and 
had three, which I gave to Porter, whom I met near home. 
The cause of this generosity was because I did not dare to 
take them home, having surreptitiously borrowed a fine 
double gun from my father which I was forbidden to take 
or handle; but, as he never used it, he often loaned it to 
me without his knowledge. Under these conditions Por- 
ter got the birds and I was invited to the feast. General 
Martin Miller, of the State militia, presided ; in times when 
Greenbush was at peace with all foreign countries he kept 
a grocery store and was commonly known as Mat. Miller; 
Tobias Teller, Bill Fairchild, Godfrey Rhodes, Port and 
I — fourteen of us in all, six men and eight grouse. After 
the last bone had been polished Bill Fairchild was 
thoughtful, and as he was sucking away on the backbone 
of a grouse, trying to extract the very last of the bitter that 
is so dear to the lover of all kinds of grouse, he asked : 

"Porter, did you ever eat a muskrat?" 



62 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

"Yes, I've eat 'em many times, an' they're right good, 
too, if you know how to dress an' cook 'em, an' I'll tell 
you what else is good, but you may not believe it; that's 
young quawks ; the old ones are fishy, but the young ones 
are not, though they are fed on fish, an' I'll get you up 



"But about the muskrat, Porter; I've eaten him, and I 
don't want any more," 

"Wa'n't it good?" 

"I'll tell you," said Bill; "you know old Dandaraw, the 
Canuck Frenchman who keeps the little drunkery just 
north of the B. & A. passenger houses? Of course you 
do. Well, after the spring freshet I dropped into Dan- 
daraw's, and we were talking about shooting muskrats. 
Dandaraw said: 'You shoot-a da mus'rat, hey, Bill?' 'Oh, 
yes,' said I; 'sometimes, just for fun, and I give 'em to 
Port Tyler, and he skins 'em for market.' 

" 'You doan eat-a da mus'rat, hey. Bill?' 

" 'No, I don't eat 'em; they smell a little too musky for 
me.' 

" 'Oh, Bill, you mus' eat a-heem; you doan' know how 
good-a he ees.' 

"I asked him how he cooked 'em, just for curiosity, 
for I had no idea that the things were eatable, and I only 
wanted to hear him chirp. He said : 

" 'First you skeen da mus'rat an' clean him fine; den 
you bile him a leetle; den you fry him an' you eat him, 
an' (smack) o-o-o!' 

"Well," said Bill, "I skeen-a da mus'rat an' I clean 
him fine; den I bile him a leetle; den I fry him an' I eat 
him. I could do the whole trick except the (smack) an' 
the o-o-o. I could eat a muskrat on a pinch, but for 
choice would prefer one of these partridges that Port 
serves up so good." 



PORTER TYLER. 63 

Port thought that he could serve up some nice fat 
young muskrats so they would fill Dandaraw's descrip- 
tion, and even Bill Fairchild would smack his lips loudly 
and say "O-o-o," and it was agreed to try it a few weeks 
later; but I missed the feast. 

Tyler was the only man I ever knew who could suc- 
cessfully hunt woodcock without a dog. He seemed to 
know just where to look for them and how to find them, 
and said that he did not want to be bothered with a dog. 
An English gunner and dog fancier lived in that lower 
end of Albany called Bethlehem — perhaps the same dis- 
trict now known as Kenwood. They called him Ken 
King, his front name being Kenneth, and I bought a bitch 
puppy from him, the mother being a pointer of famous 
stock and the father the then celebrated setter Dash, the 
crack setter of the time, owned by Mr, James Bleecker. 
By the way, this Nell of mine never showed the slightest 
trace of setter blood, and she went to Michigan afterward, 
and was the mother of many good pointers with never a 
sign of setter blood. 

This was in 1853, and my people having moved to 
Albany there was no place for Nell, and Port agreed to 
take care of her. I wanted him to work her on snipe and 
woodcock, but he said: "A dog is all right for men who 
can't find birds without one, but they are little use to me; 
I like to find 'em myself, and on the old grounds that I've 
hunted for years I know the best feedin' spots in every 
marsh or cornfield, and if the birds are there they'll not be 
far from these spots." This is a strange statement, but 
the fact that this man lived up to it and shot both snipe 
and woodcock for market without a dog can be attested 
by men now living in Albany and Greenbush. Surely a 
most strange and interesting character was Old Port 
Tyler. 



GEORGE DAWSON. 

MY FIRST TROUT. 

ABOUT 1850 my people moved across the river into 
Albany, and I was a student in the "Classical In- 
stitute" of Professor Charles H. Anthony, on 
Eagle street. Among the scholars was George S. Daw- 
son, eldest son of George Dawson, who at that time was 
assistant editor of the Albany Evening Journal. Young 
George told his father that I knew of a good trout stream 
down near Kinderhook lake, and it led to an interview. 
Mr. Dawson wanted to go, and we would take an early 
train for Kinderhook station, on the B. & A. R. R., and if 
the distance was too far to the brook he would hire a 
horse to take the three near the stream, for George S. 
would go. This seemed a reckless bit of extravagance 
to a boy whose whole expenditures for fishing had been 
a few pennies for hooks and lines and of leg muscle to get 
to the fishing places. 

The only thing that serves to fix the time of year is the 
memory that pond lilies were in bloom; the cat-tails were 
just pushing up their curious blooms, and had not burst 
to scatter their seeds, and the black-cap raspberries were 
ripe. It must have been early in July, for the swallows 
were skimming the meadows and had not begun to con- 
gregate on the telegraph wires. These things are re- 
called by Mr. Dawson's wish to take home the pond lilies, 
our picking berries near the railroad station, and young 
Dawson's doubt of my statement that swallows could 

gather on wires charged with electricity. What a thing 

54 



GEORGE DAWSON. 55 

is man's memory, and by how slight a cord is it tied to the 
past' The exact year is forgotten, but it was before i854, 
probably three years before. Mr. Dawson carried a short, 
hand-made rod of some kind of wood, with rmg guides, 
the first thing of the kind I had seen, and that gave me 
an impression that he must be a very superior angler, es- 
pecially as he said that his father had brought expensive 
rods for trout fishing from Scotland, but they had been 
lost This was a revelation! "Expensive rods —he 
called them "rods"-and the idea of paying money for 
such things when we could cut an alder pole and thought 
it expensive to buy fish hooks and lines; but, like the 
Irishman's owl which he had bought for a parrot, I said 
nothing, "but kept up a devil of a thinking." I^/^o^^y 
had been more plentiful in boyish pockets it is doubtful 
if its expenditure would have been in the direction of hsh 
poles " which could be cut anywhere and thrown away 
after use. This was a bit of dilettanteism in angling that 
hardly seemed consistent with our primitive ideas of using 
only those things which nature furnished, always except- 
ing hooks and lines. His hooks were also a revelation. 
We used only Limericks of large size, and boys usually 
prefer big hooks because they look so strong, and they 
fear that a big fish may break a small hook. Mr. Daw- 
son's hooks were small and the wire was slim, but they 
were long in the shank, something like the hook now 
known as the "New York trout," if not the same, and the 
most wonderful thing about them was that they were 
neatly put on gut snells-another new thing. He rigged 
my line with one of the smallest hooks and discarded the 
sinker which before seemed to be an indispensable part 
, of a fishing outfit, and he showed us how to fish down 
stream and how we must keep a good distance apart We 
fished with worms, and the slim, long-shanked hooks 



56 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

were perfect, because they did not break a small worm 
and allowed the use of a generous bait on the long wire. 
How I treasured a dozen of these hooks which he gave 
me, and how som2 boys looked at them with envy and 
others sneered at them, saying, "A big fish would bite 'em 
in two," are things well remembered. 

The stream was small; in places one could jump across 
it; then it would widen out, sometimes in deep holes and 
at others in shallow riffles, through meadows most of the 
way and often fringed with alders, which troubled the 
angler to use his rod. In the latter case trout would be 
hauled in as on a hand line. There was no landing net in 
the party. At this time the existence of such an imple- 
ment was unknown to us boys; we hauled in a fish, un- 
hooked it, and either strung it on a twig and carried the 
string or let the fish hang in the water to keep alive. 
This day the latter mode was not practicable. The trout 
in this stream did not run very large, perhaps from four 
to six ounces; but the new kind of hooks, the absence of 
a sinker and the consequent ability of the fish to fight, 
made it the grandest event in all my fishing, and one ever 
to be remembered. The day was perfect: a light breeze, 
the sun not too bright, and the fish taking the bait freely. 
Crawling through the brush or skipping the places where 
it was too thick to get a short rod and line in the water, 
we worked slowly down stream. I had let my hook drift 
under a log in a hole on the other side of the stream, when 
a trout struck it hard. We had not arrived at that point 
in fine angling when reels were used, and the strike 
caught me with my tip lowered, and there was a struggle 
which soon ended in the line being fast to some immova- 
ble thing, and a strong pull parted it, and for the first time 
the biggest got away. This has happened to others. 

Surely it is hard to tell, at this late day, whether grief 




GEO. DAWSON. 



GEORGE DAWSON. 57 

over the loss of a big fish overtopped the grief of losing 
one of those marvelous hooks; but that grief in solid 
chunks was abundant in a little clump of swamp willows 
is certain. The gut snell was frayed and had parted in 
the middle, as if chafed over something rough; and after 
bending on a new hook I came upon young George near 
a little foot-bridge, on which most of his clothing lay in a 
wet state. 

"What's the matter, George?" 

"Fell in. How many you got?" 

"Nine, nice ones; but I just lost an old whopper and 
one of those hooks your father gave me. How many 
have you got, and how did you fall in?" 

"I only caught three; the fish get scared as soon as 
they see you and scoot away. I was after one that started 
down stream, and stepped on a slippery stone and just 
plunked in, that's all." 

After pointing out to him that trout must not be 
chased in order to make them take the hook, he was re- 
minded of what his father had told him about not letting 
the fish see him, but in his anxiety to get a worm under a 
trout's nose all rules had been forgotten. The morning's 
work had brought on a first-class appetite on my school- 
mate as well as on me, and Mr. Dawson had the material 
to alleviate and cure that gnawing sensation if he could 
be found. Leaving all my traps and fish at the foot- 
bridge, I started down stream to find Mr. Dawson. Soon 
he hove in sight, coming up stream, and he had a string 
of about twenty fine trout. "It's getting near midday and 
the fish are not biting well, so we might as well rest and 
eat a bite," said he, "and then by the time we are through 
and walk back to the station the freight train will be along 
and we will go back in the caboose, as the agent said, for 
if we wait here for more fishing we will not get home to- 



58 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

night, as the fish will not be on the feed again before an 
hour or two of sundown." 



George Dawson, while a trenchant political writer, 
was also fond of depicting life in the woods and on the 
streams. With pleasure I renewed my acquaintance with 
him in later years, when peace reigned in the land, and by 
invitation accompanied him to the Adirondacks when 
both were familiar with the use of the fly in luring the 
trout. He was born in Falkirk, Scotland, in 1813, and 
came with his parents to America five years later. He 
had no early schooling, but learned the printers' trade be- 
fore he was thirteen, and educated himself. Then he 
went to Rochester and worked for Thurlow Weed, editor 
of an anti-Masonic paper, and in 1836 Dawson became 
editor of the Rochester Democrat. Weed was afterward 
editor of the Albany Evening Journal, and in 1846 Dawson 
joined him as assistant editor. Weed retired in the stir- 
ring days of 1862, and Mr. Dawson took his place as edi- 
tor and proprietor of the Journal, then as now one of the 
leading papers of the State of New York; and it soon be- 
came known that the pen of the new man was a most 
vigorous one. His love of nature was a most prominent 
trait, and fishing was his favorite means of enjoying this 
love. Once, while on the way to the Adirondacks with 
him, I remarked: "The woods to me is a place to loaf." 
If I had read Whitman then I would have added, "and 
invite my soul," but only added, "A couple of hours' fish- 
ing morning and evening is all I want; if the fish bite good 
it is well; if not, the trying for them suffices." 

"My boy," he replied, "that is just exactly my own 
notion, and I have a dislike for the companionship of the 



GEORGE DAWSON. 59 

bustling, busy angler, who fishes as long as he can see to 
do It morn, noon and dewy eve, in the hope of gettxng 
the last trout in the water. Such a man makes a labor of 
fishing- I go to the woods for rest and other attractions 
purer, higher and more ennobling than the mere act of 

^^^ H^e put these same words down in a notebook, and 
while in camp wrote an account of the trip to the Journal 
and used them in its columns in June, 1873, now before 

""^ Once, in writing of "how really garrulous are the 
silent men of meditative mood," and relating how, when 
in the woods, their faces would be illuminated by the Pass- 
ing thoughts while they were really communmg with dis- 
tant friends, and their silence was only seeming, and mus- 
ing in an abstracted way was a rare and pleasant gift he 
said- "It is not so with the chronically absent-minded 
who may be heavy-browed, but are vinegar-visaged and 
constitutionally morbid, and would no sooner think of 
angling than of robbing the exchequer of the realm. An 
editor's life is neither the best nor the worst in which to 
cultivate this rare gift. There are those in the profession 
who can so concentrate their thoughts that the pertin- 
acious pleadings of a score of office-seekers cannot tangle 
the thread of their meditations. And sometimes even the 
least abstracted among us have to throw ^^ ^^^^^^'^ 
amid such persistent din that bedlam itself would blush at 
the clatter. What little of the art came to me by nature 
and compulsory practice has been strengthened by the 
opportunities for silent meditation afforded by the habit 
of angling." Thus spoke the weary political editor and 
we read between the lines his disgust with the horde of 
office-seekers, who, under the ante-civil-service laws ren- 
dered miserable the life of every man who had mfloo- 



60 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

ence" in the smallest degree; but the deduction which he 
draws — that the practice of angling conduces to deliberate 
thought — is one that should commend its practise to par- 
ents as the best of all sports for their sons. The murder- 
ing instincts of a boy are often satisfied with the death of 
a low form of animal life which cannot suffer as much 
pain as mammals or birds, under any circumstances, be- 
cause their nervous organizations are lower. Shake- 
speare was greatly in error when he wrote, in effect, that: 
"The poor beetle that we tread upon in corporal suffer- 
ance finds a pang as great as when giant dies." Suffer- 
ing is entirely a matter of nerves. A worm which can be 
cut in two and go on living, and perhaps grow into two 
worms, cannot suffer much. Pull a lobster's claw from 
its body and a new one grows; pull a limb from a mouse 
and the animal dies. 

Under date of July 3, 1878, Mr. Dawson wrote me: 
"No pastime is so attractive to me as angling, and when 
not at it I greatly like to talk and write about it, ethically, 
not scientifically, for I have never been able to master an 
'ology' of any kind," and then he goes on to ask about the 
details of grayling fishing. Some time before this 1 called 
on him and enlarged on the pleasures of a trip to the Au 
Sable River, Michigan, with Mr. Daniel H. Fitzhugh, of 
Bay City, and of the capture of the gentle grayling. He 
listened a while and then asked : 

"How large do grayling grow?" 

"Those we took were fish that would weigh from 
three-quarters to one and a half pounds, but some have 
been taken that would weigh as much as two pounds." 

"My boy" — he seemed to be fond of addressing me in 
this way, perhaps because of the fact of the great disparity 
of years when we first fished together back of Kinderhook 
Landing, or because his son, George S., was my school- 



GEORGE DAWSON. 61 

mate — "you talk enthusiastically about this new fish, 
which never exceeds two pounds in weight; did you ever 
take a salmon?" 

"No, but " 

"Well, I have, and the grayling may be a good little 
fish for those who have never hooked bigger game; but it 
seems rather small to one who has taken a salmon." 

This was a setback from an enthusiastic angler, and, 
after pulling myself together, I ventured to suggest 
that his angling literature, as far as I had read it, rather 
placed the weight and number of fish in the background, 
and that, as the originator of the saying that "it is not all 
of fishing to fish," I had thought that the newly discovered 
grayling might interest him. He saw the point at once, 
became interested in the fish and went to Michigan to 
take them, an account of which can be found in his "An- 
gling Talks," published by Forest and Stream in 1883 — a 
most interesting little work, full of flavor of the woods and 
waters. 

Mr. Dawson died February 17, 1883, after a few days' 
illness, aged seventy years. His life had been such an 
active one, and as a political leader he was so prominent, 
that his death produced a profound sensation. The Al- 
bany Argus, politically opposed to Mr. Dawson, said of 
him: "To journalism this man bore no undistinguished 
relation. He was a ready, wise, dangerous writer. He 
was a Greek to be feared when he came bearing presents. 
* * * He was very able in stating a case for a party; 
he was even abler in stating a case against a party. He 
was ablest in giving a man either a fatal defence or a fatal 
attack. His genius ran to combat; battle was his ele- 
ment. Routine tired him. Peace gave him a sense of 
ennui." 

About five months before his death he retired from his 



62 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

editorial labors, although his well-knit frame and com- 
pact form showed no more sign of weariness than did his 
mind. The Argus said: "Pneumonia wrestled the life 
out of this Scot, they say. Doubtless it did; 'twas pneu- 
monia of which he died. But how came his constitution 
to take it? Through cold? Why, he had summered for 
years in water knee-high, or waist-high, putting up jobs 
on fish. Why, he had repeatedly slept on the floor of lum- 
ber cabins o' winter nights, his feet to a fire and his head 
under an open window, in the Michigan woods. He had 
the conquering will that defied wet and blasts. Did his 
prolonged labors undermine his constitution? Emphat- 
ically no ! He was ever strongest in harness. When he 
went to press every day he went to bed every night to 
sleep the easy-breathing, refreshing sleep of a boy. 
Knocking off work unsettled this man's strength. Labor 
was a tonic to him. He would have lived through sheer 
love of labor had he remained a scalp-taker every day, 
armed with his keen pen and keener thought. None can 
be blamed. He quitted work because he said he wanted 
to quit it. He thought that lessening the tension would 
enable him to play in the youth of old age. And he loved 
to play. But work was his best play. Then he played 
with thunder." 

Only once did Mr. Dawson hold public office. He 
was postmaster of Albany from 1861 to 1867, at a time 
when his pen was most actively engaged in the patriotic 
work of upholding the integrity of the Union. But he 
did not stop at writing editorials and equipping his eldest 
son for the army. He publicly announced that he would 
pay to the families of any six printers who would volun- 
teer $4 per week during the time they remained in the 
United States service, and he did it. One of the six, 
Charles Van Allen, of Bethlehem, Albany county, went 



GEORGE DAWSON. 63 

out with my regiment in August, 1862, and died in An- 
dersonville prison September 18, 1864. His wife received 
the pay for nearly a year after he died, or for the full term 
of his enlistment, some $624, all to one family. 

George Dawson was a member of the Baptist Church, 
a Sunday-school teacher and lay preacher. A noble man 
and a most charming one to be in camp with. Entirely 
without ostentation, his acts of charity were known to 
but few, and if within his power his pencil would be drawn 
through most of these lines, written by one who is proud 
to have known him and to have called him friend. 



MAJOR GEORGE S. DAWSON. 

CAPTAIN GEORGE S. DAWSON, Second New 
York Heavy Artillery, my schoolmate and fish- 
ing companion on the one trip which has been 
related, was stationed in the defences of Washington, near 
Alexandria, in 1863, and came to visit me when my regi- 
ment, the Seventh New York Heavy Artillery, occupied 
the forts from Tennallytown, on the Harper's Ferry road, 
to Fort De Russy, near the Seventh street road, and we 
had a grand review of the schoolboy days and of the only 
fishing trip that we ever had together. Said he: "That 
day will ever be remembered, for in my case it filled the 
proverbial measure of fisherman's luck; and that lunch! 
Did you ever strike anything so fine?" His regiment, in 
June, 1864, was in the Second Brigade, First Division, 
Second Corps, Army of the Potomac; while mine was in 
the Fourth Brigade of the same division and corps. 
While we lay in the trenches at Cold Harbor I sent him a 
note asking if he was catching many trout now, and he 
answered, in effect, that his regiment caught something 
else in the charge on June 3, and to the best of his knowl- 
edge the Seventh Artillery had some of the same brim- 
stone. The official records show that the Second lost 215 
officers and men killed, wounded and missing in that ter- 
rible assault on the impregnable works at Cold Harbor, 
mainly in the charge on the morning of June 3, 1864. 
My message had the desired effect; it showed that my 
schoolmate had lived through the storm and was still on 
duty. Twelve days later our brigades were halted near 
each other, preparatory to forming for the battle which 

64 




Major GEO. S. DAWSON. 



MAJOR GEORGE S. DAWSON. 65 

took place next day, and he sought me out. In the few 
minutes' chat he ran over several incidents of school days, 
and referred to good old Professor Anthony and our 
trouting. That day's fishing was firmly fixed in his mind. 
I never fished with him again, and do not know that he 
ever went fishing after that time. In later years, while 
fishing with his father, we often talked of the Major, and 
he was a favorite subject with the elder George, but no 
reference to his fishing, except on that one occasion, was 
ever made, 

A bugle call broke our conference, and with a hurried 
grip of the hand Captain Dawson said: "I think we will 
intrench here and besiege Petersburg, and then we can 
visit often. Good-by." 

There was a siege of Petersburg after the assault on 
the enemy's works on June i6, but Captain Dawson took 
no part in it. A rifle-shot just above the left knee, which 
he thought only a flesh wound and which the surgeon 
termed "a thirty-days' scratch" — meaning a furlough for 
that length of time — took him off the field; and twenty- 
four hours later, while on his way to the Second Corps 
hospital at City Point, he was strong enough to hold in 
his lap the head of a poor fellow whose leg had been am- 
putated. Whether the wound was more serious than was 
at first supposed, or because of the jolting in the ambu- 
lance, his leg was amputated shortly after reaching the 
hospital, and he was sent by steamer to Washington, 
where he remained four months before he was allowed to 
be taken home. Shortly after reaching Washington his 
commission as major was received. "That's good," 
said he; "when my leg gets a little better I'll be mustered 
in as major, and then I can join my regiment as a mounted 
officer; for a fellow with one leg is of no use in the line, 
and I want to see this war fought to the end." Poor fel- 



66 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

low! he died on December 6, nearly four months after re- 
ceiving his wound, aged twenty-six and a half years. 

The post-mortem showed that the bone was injured 
above the amputation, and in army parlance he is still 
"awaiting muster." As a schoolboy he was very bright 
and studious, and although several years my junior he 
helped me out in my studies and "exams." many times. 
After leaving school he entered the service of Weed, Par- 
sons & Co., publishers, and was a member of the Tenth 
Regiment, New York Militia, before the war. Early in 
the war he offered his services as a private, but was re- 
jected because of a defect in one eye from an accident in 
childhood ; but he was bound to go in some capacity, and 
after the Second Artillery left Albany there was a vacant 
first lieutenantcy, and he got the appointment and joined 
the command at Staten Island, before it left the State, and 
was afterward made captain. No less a poet than Alfred 
B. Street wrote quite a long poem on "George Seward 
Dawson, Major Second New York Artillery, died from 
wounds received before Petersburg, June i6, 1864." Af- 
ter his death the Governor of the State forwarded to the 
bereaved father a brevet commission for his son (in mem- 
oriam) of lieutenant-colonel, "for gallant and meritorious 
conduct before Petersburg, Va." His regimental com- 
rades bore witness to his soldierly qualities in a set of reso- 
lutions sent to his father, and Post No. 63, Department of 
New York, Grand Army of the Republic, of Albany, is 
named "George S. Dawson," after the young soldier 
whose life of promised usefulness was,Hke so many others, 
brought to a sudden end, but cannot be considered 
wasted. 



GEORGE W. SIMPKINS. 

MY FIRST DEER. 

IF I was ever a good boy my mother never told me of it. 
Hundreds of times, when I would come home from a 
nutting expedition with trousers torn by shag-bark 
hickory, she has said, while viewing the breaches in the 
breeches, "I declare, Fred, I think you are the worst boy 
in the world." As this was often repeated when my 
shoes were ruined by being in mud and water all day, I 
accepted it as a correct estimate of my rating. But, I ask 
you, how is a boy to get the first whack at the shellbarks 
before they drop unless he climbs the trees? How can he 
wade a stream without wetting his shoes, unless he takes 
them of¥? The fact was apparent to me that my mother 
knew little about a boy's needs, and therefore was not 
competent to criticise a boy's actions. You've got to shin 
up a tree to get the nuts if the frost has not opened the 
shucks and the tree is too tall to use sticks and stones on 
with good effect. That's a plain statement of fact, and it 
can't be disputed; but somehow mothers fail to see these 
things in the proper light. 

"When vacation time comes," said my mother, "if you 
are a good boy and go to school regularly, don't ruin your 
shoes in the swamps nor tear your clothes in the nut trees, 
you may go and visit with Mr. Simpkins, where you will 
have all the fishing and shooting that you want. He 
writes that he would like you to spend your vacation with 
him, and perhaps you may see a deer, for they are plenti- 
ful near his place. It all depends, however, on the way 
you behave between now and then." 

"Who is Mr. Simpkins, mother, and where does he 
live?" 

67 



68 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

"He is a farmer who lives up in Warren county, on the 
border of the great woods. His farm is on the Schroon 
River, where there are plenty of fish, and the woods are 
full of game of all kinds. He married a distant relative 
of mine whom you never met, but who spent some months 
with us before you can remember." 

Here was a prospect of fun! Fishing and shooting, 
with the chance of seeing a real live deer! There was a 
stuffed buck in the State Geological Hall in Albany, but 
it appeared to be ridiculously small to my notion, for I 
had read that "A monstrous buck came crashing through 
the underbrush," while the little animal, a trifle moth- 
eaten, that stood, stuffed and looking unhappy, was not 
as big as our brindle cow. 

This was in the spring of 1849 — recalled by one of 
mother's letters now before me — and I would be sixteen 
years old when August came. From a public library 
Cooper's "Deerslayer" was borrowed, and John Atwood 
and I studied it carefully. It was excitingly interesting, 
and we held our breath when the cap was lifted from the 
old pirate, Hutter, in his ark, and he was found to be 
scalped when they thought he was only drunk, and the 
whole story of Indian fighting, capture and escape from 
torture so took possession of us that the book was finished 
before it occurred to John to say: "It's a mighty good 
story, but I'll be durned if it tells much about killin' deer. 
I thought it was a-goin' to tell a feller how to find 'em, an' 
how to shoot 'em, an' it's all about killin' Injens. I don't 
want to kill any Injens — they never hurt me none — but I 
would like to get a crack at a deer. You got to have a 
good rifle an' take 'em jes back of the fore shoulder, right 
in the heart, or they'll run off an' die. You couldn^t kill 
a deer! You'd git scared if you saw one. I don't believe 
Ole Port Tyler could kill a deer, 'less the deer stood still. 



GEORGE W. SIMPKINS. 69 

for they jump a hundred feet at a lick, an' Hghtnin' 'd have 
a hard time to ketch 'em." 

The days were filled with talk of the coming expedi- 
tion into a land where the deer had not only lived, but had 
been seen feeding among the cows; and the nights were 
filled with visions of deer whose horns were as high and 
branching as an oak, and the squirrels were leaping from 
tine to tine, disturbing the partridges which were nesting 
in the antlers. Even dreams have ends to them, whether 
of sport, fame or wealth. The long-looked-for day came, 
and the start was made. At this day all is blank until 
Glens Falls was reached, and whether we started from 
Albany by rail, canal or stage is uncertain. The ecstatic 
pleasure of at last really going to this promised land of 
fish and game obliterated all such purely mechanical ideas 
as the ways to get there. But Glens Falls was a place to 
be looked out for with open eyes. Here was the cave in 
which Hawk-Eye and Uncas stood off the Mingoes! 
Here was the precipice from which Uncas killed the 
Mingo who fell from an overhanging tree, and Uncas was 
chided by the scout for hitting him some "two inches be- 
low" the painted belt line, as memory recalls the story. 

Mother went up with me. She was entirely ignorant 
of the history of that terrible night in the cavern when 
the screams of the tortured horses directed the rescuers 
to the cave, and actually seemed indifferent about visiting 
places which to me were not only historic, but sacred. 

Here I must pause and look back. At that time the 
difference between history and fiction was not a strictly 
defined line. My ideas of such things were crude. To- 
day, forty-seven years later, when one should be able to 
discriminate between fact and fancy in what passes for 
history, that line seems as misty as ever. Prescott's "Con- 
quest of Mexico" is grand, but we do not find the evidence 



70 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

of an advanced civilization before the conquest of that 
country. The great temples have not a stone left. There 
is not a trace of an aboriginal, intelligent people, while at 
Glens Falls the cave of Uncas is there, in part. The great 
clifif, where the Mingo was shot by Uncas, is being torn 
down, and a few years ago I was there with a Fish Com- 
missioner who had no poetry in his soul, and who actually 
suggested cutting away a portion of the celebrated cave of 
Uncas to make a fishway ! 

I have strayed from my text, but let us hope that the 
people of Glens Falls or of the State of New York will 
preserve this cave, as all other historic places are pre- 
served ; for if the cave is not a part of real history, it should 
be made so by law. 



It was evening when Mr. Simpkins met us at the hotel 
in Warrensburgh with his team. He was a stalwart 
farmer, whose appearance, from team to person, denoted 
thrift, and his cordial reception soon made us friends. A 
drive of three or four miles northward brought us to his 
farm, a welcome from Mrs. Simpkins and supper. The 
house was at the foot of a mountain, up which ran a road, 
and most of the farm was in a deep bend of the Schroon 
River, where the soil was very rich and from which a crop 
of grain had been taken. It was too late in the day to fish 
or shoot, but my fishing tackle was laid out and inspected 
and we talked of field sports until bedtime, when a tired 
boy turned and caught enormous fish which unhooked 
themselves and either walked back into the water on theh- 
tails or vanished into air. A squirrel which I had killed 
turned into a live bear and was charging me when Mrs. 
Simpkins called me to breakfast, and the real world came 
suddenly back. If the shade of Shakespeare could have 



GEORGE W. SIMPKINS. 71 

spent the night with me he would have amended his say- 
ing: "Dreams are the children of an idle brain." Mine 
was busy. 

Bait had been provided and the river was reached. Mr. 
Simpkins had often fished before, but it was evident that 
my schooling under Reuben Wood and John Atwood 
rendered me competent to show him how to rig his lines, 
select his poles, and how to properly impale a worm. He 
chose a low point of land where there was a high bank and 
a deep hole on the opposite side, in the bend, and we 
fished. At that early day there were no black bass in 
either Schroon Lake or the river, and we took a fine lot 
of perch and a few other fishes. He was an observant 
man and showed me where kingfishers had nested in a 
hole in the bank, under a stump, and we dug out the nest 
and a lot of fish bones, and the nesting habits of this bird 
were learned. 

Gray squirrels were plenty; they could be seen and 
heard in all directions from the house, and as this kind of 
game was rare about Greenbush, where the little chicka- 
ree, or red squirrel, was abundant, there was every morn- 
ing either fishing or squirrel shooting, and in the evening 
a shot or two at the great northern hare, a new animal to 
me, which they said was white in winter. Mother went 
home after a week, saying that she had eaten fish and 
game enough to last for some time, and I went up the 
mountain the day before she left and brought her five 
ruffed grouse (we called them "pa'tridges") to take home 
to the family. I made the usual promise which a mother 
always expects, to be a good boy; no hard matter, with no 
schoolmaster near and all the time to do as I pleased. 

One day we were fishing in the river, taking an occa- 
sional fish and watching the little rafts of boards float by, 
when one with a man on it came in sight. He was steer- 



72 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

ing it with a pole and starting any others that had lodged 
along the banks; when he saw us he pushed up ashore, 
and, after the usual greeting, said: "Simpkins, we are 
going to have a deer hunt day after to-morrow ; will you 
go?" 

"Yes; where are you going to make the drive?" 

"Over on the West River, where we went last year. 
Our boys haven't had a bite of venison this summer, and 
they think it about time for it; we'll look for you, sure," 
and he poled his raft into the stream and was soon lost to 
sight. 

The "West River" was a local term for the Hudson, 
the Schroon being the "East River." I had heard that 
Simpkins was a mighty hunter, especially good at still- 
hunting. He said that the season was too early for the 
latter sport, because the trees and underbrush were in full 
leaf. He brought out his favorite gun, oiled the locks 
and cleaned the barrels. It was a double gun, one barrel 
a rifle and the other a smooth-bore, quite heavy and hand- 
somely finished. I had been using a single-barreled shot- 
gun on the grouse and squirrels, and had not seen this 
one. Old Gunner, his hound, had an eye on the gun, and 
it might have been hard to say whose excitement was 
greatest, his or mine. There was this difference between 
us: Gunner was asking and expecting to go, and I would 
not ask and did not expect to be invited to join in a hunt 
with men who might not like the intrusion; but you have 
no idea how much I would have liked an invitation ! 

"Ever shoot a rifle?" Simpkins asked. 

"No; but I've seen a man shoot at a mark lots of times, 
and have often sighted it on his targets, and I know how 
to load one." All this to show that I thought I could be 
trusted with a rifle if he'd only ask me to go. Oh, if he 
only would! "I know you put the bullet on your flat 



GEORGE IV. SIMPKINS. T3 

hand and pour on powder enough to cover it, and that's 
the proper load. Then you put the powder in the rifle 
and lay a greased patch over the muzzle, put the bullet on 
the patch and force it down, way down, until it is home 
and the ramrod bounds on it. The rod won't bounce if 
the bullet isn't home." This was to give him further 
proof that I knew enough about a rifle to use one. Would 
he ever take the hint? 

"I've killed eleven deer with this gun," said he, "and 
I haven't had it two years. Killed all but one with the 
rifle barrel. That one was close by, not over thirty yards 
ofiF, and I missed it clean with the rifle; the bullet may 
have touched a twig and gone off somewhere else, for the 
deer stood broadside to and didn't see me. He jumped 
at the shot, but I fetched him with buckshot in the other 
barrel. Ever see a deer?" 

"Not a live one; only stuffed ones, in the museum; but 
I would like to see a real live deer in the woods, jumping 
as they do in pictures." There! that was a distinct bid 
for an invitation. If it didn't come after that he was a 
stupid, or did not want me. He put the gun aside, filled 
his powder horn, spent much time with other things, and 
then slowly said: 

"How would you like to go along?" 
"Oh, Mr. Simpkins! you don't mean it! I would be in 
the way, I fear." 

"No, you can go if you like; I'll go up the hill to Kel- 
lam's and borrow a rifle for you; he has three, and you can 
practise with it this afternoon, and we'll get an early start 
in the morning." 

My rifle shooting that afternoon did not break all rec- 
ords, unless for bad off-hand shooting; but who could do 
good shooting when all a-tremble from head to foot? The 
fact that many monstrous bucks were killed in bed that 



74 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

night proves that I had some sleep. Otherwise I doubt 
if an eye was closed. 

Two boys joined the party before we had gone far. 
They were Henry Tripp and my later army comrade. 
Colonel M. N. Dickinson, both living in Warrensburgh 
to-day. Ben Kellam and another man made up the party 
of six, and there were about as many hounds. 

A man took all the dogs and put them out singly as he 
found a deer track, while the rest went on to take stands 
on the runways. I was placed in a road looking over a 
field to a piece of woods some two hundred yards ofif, and 
told to watch a point where a deer might come out, but 
not to shoot until it had jumped the rail fence, when it 
might stop to look up and down the road if not frightened, 
and so a good shot could be had. It seemed many hours 
— it may have been half of one — when a hound that had 
been baying for some time in the distance was evidently 
getting nearer; still he was afar off. A farm wagon came 
rattling up the road with three men in it. When opposite 
me, as I turned to look at them, one arose and yelled : "See 
that deer !" I looked back and saw something like a small 
calf turn and re-enter the woods. So that little thing was 
a deer! Where was the hound? In the pictures the 
hounds were pressing the deer hard, some of them tearing 
at his flanks. More time passed; such long hours I never 
did see; the sun was not yet at meridian, and the hound 
kept slowly approaching — oh, so slow! — and finally old 
Gunner came out of that bit of wood, giving tongue at in- 
tervals, and after slowly getting to the place where I first 
saw the deer he turned and followed its track, making a V 
out into the field. I had at last seen a real live deer! 
That was a thing to tell John Atwood and Port Tyler, and 
to brag about. 

Young Tripp, who had been stationed next to me, 



GEORGE W. SIMPKINS. 75 

came running down to learn if the deer had crossed. The 
driver soon appeared and said that it was an old runway 
that was seldom used, and none of the party wanted it. 
"Yet," said he, "the first deer of the season took it, and 
you'd have got a shot only for that wagon." 

Perhaps it was well that it turned out so, for, as he 
spoke, a rifle shot was heard off to the left, where the deer 
went, and we learned afterward that Dickinson stopped 
my deer a mile above, and it was a fair-sized doe, in good 
condition. 

So far there was a lack of excitement in hounding 
deer. The long, solitary waits, not long in reality, but 
intolerably so to a boy whose gun was ready, and, as he 
fixed himself on the runway, mentally said: "Now bring 
on your deer!" 

The patience of the fisherman somehow was mislaid. 
The case was dififerent. Of course you must wait in the 
quiet of a mill-pond for a fish to come to sample your bait, 
but here was a noisy, bell-mouthed hound proclaiming 
his every move, bringing to you a new game of great size, 
which tested your marksmanship to its utmost. He would 
not swallow your hook and be pulled in by main strength, 
oh, no! Here I give up the comparison. We all know 
just how it is. I've tried to tell how I think it is, but give 
it up. Can't do it. 

Ben Kellam took me over to the river, and put me on 
a runway there, and left. He said that the other hounds 
were off, some out of hearing, but they might bring a deer 
this way. I was on a high bank on an outside bend of 
the river, and could see down to the next bend, about one 
hundred yards, and there was a shallow rififle that a deer 
could walk from opposite my station to the point below, 
on my side. I ate my lunch. Squirrels jumped about 
and a partridge alighted on a nearby limb. Temptation 



76 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

is one of the hardest things to resist, and I have not always 
been equal to the task; but this day I simply took good 
aim at them and thought. It had been impressed upon 
me that I must not shoot except at a deer — that a shot 
from me would testify that a deer had come my way and 
would confuse others. Hounds were tonguing in sev- 
eral directions. I had about lost interest in this stupid 
work when, "flecked with leafy light and shadow," a buck 
walked down the opposite slope into the river! It must 
be a dream ! There were no hounds after him that could 
be seen, and it seemed as if I was choking. He drank, 
looked around and drank again. I must shoot him! That 
fact came slowly to me, but I was all a-tremble. He 
walked diagonally across the river. I aimed and fired. 
He floundered in the water. Surely he was hit, but might 
escape! Never thinking to load and shoot again, I left 
the rifle, and with bare hands started for the buck to take 
him by the horns and drown him. I slipped on the slimy 
stones and fell twice, but the buck was slipping and falling 
also. I was within twenty feet of him when a rifle shot 
dropped him. It was Simpkins, who had hurried forward 
at the sound of my shot, and just in time to save the day. 
Unless a scratch on top of his neck was made by my bul- 
let, I missed him. The slippery stones threw the buck 
when he tried to run, and to my statement that I intended 
to take him by the horns and drown him Simpkins said : 
"You durned fool, he'd 'a' ripped all the clothes offen you 
with his forefeet, and might 'a' taken your bowels out at 
the same time. Don't you ever go to foolin' with a deer 
that has got fight left in him, or you won't have any left 
in you." The shots brought Dickinson and Tripp, and 
the buck was soon skinned and cut up for transportation. 
Although the horns were in the velvet and said to be of 
no use, I insisted on saving them as a trophy of my "first 



GEORGE W. SIMPKINS. 77 

deer," for, like Falstaff over the dead body of Hotspur, I 
intended to "swear I killed him myself." So the trophy 
was preserved and taken to Albany, and for many years I 
did more lying about killing that buck than a dealer in 
garden seeds does in his spring catalogue. 

Simpkins said: "A little lie like that never hurts any- 
body. Most all young hunters lie a little about their 
game." At first it hurt me to lie about it — especially to 
Old Port Tyler, who wanted all the details — but the story 
soon assumed the veracity of history. In later life I killed 
many deer, but they somehow never assumed the impor- 
tance of the only one I ever lied about. I wrote John At- 
wood about it, quoting from "As You Like It:" "Which 
is he that killed the deer?" and winding up by telHng him 
that he didn't know a thing about the jump of the deer, 
for they couldn't make over fifteen feet at a jump. 

A quarter of the doe which Dickinson killed was given 
me to carry. I was put on the road home, while the rest 
went another way. Stopping at Kellam's about sun- 
down, his wife gave me supper; and, leaving the rifle, I 
took a shotgun and shouldered the venison for home, 
down the mountain. An unearthly scream came from a 
distance, and my pace quickened. Again the horrible 
scream was given closer by, and with an open pocket knife 
and a cocked gun I jumped down the hill, leaving tracks 
that surprised men who saw them next day. Getting 
over a rail fence near the house the knife pricked my wrist, 
and it seemed as if the animal had me. I was faint with 
fright, and it was some time before Mrs. Simpkins could 
learn the cause. Her husband came about midnight and 
heard her story as he was about to get in bed. He 
dressed, called Gunner, took his rifle and started up the 
hill. Kellam and he put the dog out, but old Gunner 
soon came back, cried, got between his master's legs and 



1 



78 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

could not be made to stir. A puppy went on and put up 
something, but they could not follow it. 

A panther had been about the locality, and shortly 
after I left Mr. Simpkins killed a large one, A Mr. Bead- 
enell said it was a bluejay that screamed and scared me, 
but when I told this to my friend he said: "Bluejays don't 
scream after dark," and that settled the jay question. 

At this time Simpkins was perhaps thirty-five years 
old. He had not lived near Warrensburgh long, and 
moved West a few years later, and I lost track of him. 
Memory recalls him as an intelligent farmer, a good 
hunter, an indifferent fisherman, and a good friend who 
helped me lie about that deer, for which let us hope that 
both he and I have been forgiven, and that the recording 
angel, as in the case of "Uncle Toby," after recording the 
sin dropped a tear upon the page and blotted it out for- 
ever. 



COLONEL CHARLES H. RAYMOND. 

TURTLES, SETTERS AND DUCKS. 

THE only fishing companion of earliest boyhood 
with whom I have kept in touch throughout life, 
and who is living to-day, is the subject of this 
sketch. He was born in Albany, N. Y., in January, 1834, 
and is near my own age. He frequently visited me across 
the river, and we hunted turtles in the creeks from the red 
mill to Quackendary Hollow — pond turtles, snapping tur- 
tles and box turtles — and the point was to collect as many 
as possible and try to train them to race. We fished a 
little once in a while, but to Raymond it was too slow and 
lacked the excitement of grabbing turtles; and this was 
characteristic of his life throughout. As a fisherman pure 
and simple he would never have achieved fame. He 
lacked that quality of patience which is not strained, but 
droppeth like the gentle worm overboard when it is the 
last in the bait box. I cared little to fish with him because 
of this lack of patience. He was of the class who say, 
"Yes, I like to fish if they bite fast." But he was a born 
hunter, wing, rifle shot and "bird-dog" man, and took to 
setters as ducks go to a mill-pond. 

We would watch old John Chase lift his fyke nets in 
the creek, and he would give us the turtles that he caught. 
We would stroll down the Greenbush bank, past old Fort 
Crailo, where I went to school, and watch the sturgeon 
jump in the river. Then a big one would jump every few 
minutes; now there are few, if any, in the Hudson. We 
went back of the nut orchard and drank the strong sul- 
phur water from Harrowgate Spring, which we often talk 
of to-day. It is singular that we never went shooting to- 

79 



80 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

gether, perhaps because his ideas of sportsmanship were 
higher than mine, and he could go to more distant and 
better places than I; but, whatever the reason, we often 
talked of shooting, but never shot in company; yet I kept 
track of him and of his shooting trips in various parts of 
the country. 

While still a small boy — too small to carry the smallest 
arms — he followed afield such sportsmen as the late Dr. 
Judson and his pupil, Alexander Bullock, of West Sand- 
lake, Rensselaer county, N. Y., in admiration of their 
skillful handling of the Doctor's slashing English setters, 
of which I heard much at that time. The masterful way 
in which those adepts in the art of wing shooting grassed 
the plump brown woodcock, which they flushed in front 
of their dogs in the rich coverts that lined the banks of 
the Wynantskill, taught him lessons in that "deliberate 
promptitude," so dear to Frank Forrester, that have never 
been forgotten. As he grew older he was permitted to 
accompany these sportsmen and shoot with them, and I 
heard a great deal of these trips after I became his school- 
mate at Professor Anthony's, with the late Major George 
S. Dawson, the subject of a sketch in this series. 

The first field dog that young Raymond owned was a 
setter bred by Doctor Judson, called Prince, a very good 
dog for a boy, because he knew the ways of birds, and, as 
I remember, had a way as well as a will of his own. His 
next — and a rare good one it grew to be — was a pointer 
from my Nell, who was described in the article on Port 
Tyler as a pointer whose father was a setter. She was 
stolen from me and recovered by my father after I left 
Albany, and he bred her to a liver-colored pointer owned 
by Mr. Sawyer, of Albany, and gave the choice of the 
litter to his nephew, young Raymond, who named him 
Don and trained him to a perfection that was rare in those 




Colonel CHAS. H. RAYMOND. 



COLONEL CHARLES H. RAYMOND. 81 

days, took him to Michigan and shot over him, to the sur- 
prise of the shooters there, who had never seen a field dog 
work on feathered game and had no experience of wing 
shooting. These things to hear I, Hke Desdemona, would 
seriously incline in after years, and the fame of my Nell 
and her progeny seemed partly mine. Young Raymond 
gave Don to his friend, Harry Palmer, in 1856, and shot 
over him again two years later. After Mr. Palmer's death 
Don was sold at auction for $50, a very high price for a 
bird dog in Michigan at that time. I had given Nell such 
training as she had. My boyish knowledge of dog train- 
ing must have been crude, although I did not suspect it 
at the time, for I had read Youatt, Frank Forrester and 
other authors, and had seen some bird dogs work, and 
thought, boylike, that I knew it all; but Nell was not 
broken to suit the fastidious taste of Master Raymond. 
He next bred her to the famous Pumpelly pointer, and 
then to a club-tailed pointer owned by a man named Ma- 
guire, and one of the litter was a beautifully coated liver- 
colored setter, the first one in four litters that showed the 
blood of her sire, James Bleecker's well-known setter. 
This puppy, Fifine, Mr. Raymond gave to Monsieur 
Pierre Delpit, his fencing master, in 1859. 

It was in Jackson county, Michigan, where Mr. Ray- 
mond and Don surprised the natives, and the woodcock 
and game of all kinds abounded there. Mr. R. learned 
to track the deer amid the oak openings, through the 
mossy swamps around Vineyard Lake and alongthewind- 
ings of Raisin River, Here the early lessons of old "Un- 
cle Henry" Harris, the famous hunter of Lake George, 
who taught the boy to "shute rifil," found their academy 
of graduation, and thereafter, so long as eyes held their 
own, Charles could look with confidence along the sights 
of a rifle at moving game. We had drifted far apart until 



82 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

my return in i860 from a six years' tramp, and we no 
more lured the sunfish from the creeks, nor held disputes 
over the species, age or other things appertaining to tur- 
tles and tortoises. We left the frogs to be stoned by 
younger boys, and contented ourselves with reminis- 
cences of our mighty deeds, the only difference of opin- 
ion, then and to-day, being the question which of us it 
was that attempted to jump a stream and changed his 
mind when half way across and stuck in the mud. I still 
believe it was Charles. 

In the meantime he had undertaken long journeyings 
abroad, and save a chamois hunt in Switzerland, with its 
climbing, sliding, crevasse leaping and glacier scram- 
bling, there was no shooting for two years. After wan- 
dering through Germany and Italy, living on foot for 
months along the valleys and on the mountains of Switz- 
erland, he went back to France and made his home in the 
Latin Quarter of Paris, along about in Trilby's time; and 
if he failed to meet Little Billee, I know by what he has 
told me that he must have been on friendly terms with 
Zoo Zou and the Laird, for he knew all the pretty songs 
mentioned or hinted at in Mr. Du Manner's truthful re- 
cital of life "in the Quarter," and from conversation with 
him within the year I gained the impression that he even 
knows the fourth and expurgated verse of "Au Clair de la 
Liine." Be that as it may, he returned to his native land 
with the ripened experience of a man of the world, and a 
mind well stored not only with the literature of various 
countries, but enriched by that contact with the people of 
those lands which only travel afoot can give. 

After his return the Insurance Department of the 
State of New York was being organized by the Hon. 
William Barnes, superintendent, Mr. Raymond was ap- 
pointed to a clerkship in that ofhce, from which he rose to 



COLONEL CHARLES H. RAYMOND. 83 

succeed the Hon. James W. Husted as deputy superin- 
tendent of the department. While thus engaged he be- 
came a member of the Albany Zouave Cadets, a fine body 
of citizen soldiers, which was afterward merged into the 
Tenth Regiment New York State National Guard, as 
Company A. Then came the war, when men left the 
farm, the store and the workshop to hasten to preserve the 
Union. The Tenth Regiment volunteered, was recruited 
to the full standard and mustered into the U. S. service as 
the 177th N. Y. Volunteers, and on its rolls was "Charles 
H. Raymond, first lieutenant, Company A." The regi- 
ment was assigned to the Department of the Gulf, under 
General N. P. Banks. Just before the siege of Port Hud- 
son he was appointed aide-de-camp on the stafif of General 
F. S. Nickerson, and later was made Assistant Adjutant- 
General on the brigade stafif. 

All through that weary siege, lying in the trenches in 
a swampy country which filled the hospitals with mias- 
matic patients. Colonel Raymond was at his post of duty, 
even when, as his comrade. Colonel David A. Teller, told 
me, he had been positively ordered to the hospital; and in 
the first assault on the works, May 27, 1863, was again at 
his post, although hardly able to stand. Looking over 
one of his war-time letters this sentence is found: "This 
campaigning with field men and field guns, but without 
field dogs. Inter arma silent canes, which, being inter- 
preted, means that when men go afield to shoot each other 
pointers are no longer to the point, and setters get a set- 
back. These are not the dogs of war." 

While in the field Colonel Raymond could not entirely 
sink the sportsman in the soldier, for in writing to me of 
the second assault on Port Hudson he said: "You cannot 
think how sad and strange sounded the whistling of the 
quail in the fields over which our brigade charged on that 



84 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

fateful June 14, and how that weird whistle seemed to ex- 
ult over men who, with empty guns, were rushing forward 
to glory and the grave." A little more than a year ago he 
again visited that battlefield; again heard the whistling of 
the merry Bob Whites, descendants of those birds of 1863, 
and received from the proprietor of the plantation — the 
son of the owner at the time of the battle — a cordial invi- 
tation to come down when the season opened and shoot 
in peace over the field where his men had shot in war some 
thirty years before. Verily the whirligig of time brings 
wondrous changes, as well as revenges! 

With the return of peace the Colonel went back to his 
former position in the Insurance Department of the State, 
and to the dogs. He bred a good and serviceable line of 
setters from the native strains of Mr. Truax, of Albany, 
N. Y., and of General William J. Sewell, of Cape May, 
Colonel E. M. Quimby, of Morristown, and Mr. Theo- 
dore Morford, of Newton, all in the sporting State of New 
Jersey. With these dogs he established the kennels of 
Fox Farm, near Morristown, N. J. 

In the early '70s Mr. Raymond entered into partner- 
ship with Mr. John A. Little, the general agent of the 
Mutual Life Insurance Company for New York City. 
Later on, when Mr. Little retired from business, Mr. R. 
assumed sole charge of the Mutual Life's metropolitan 
agency, which includes Long Island and Staten Island, a 
position which he retains to-day. In 1890 he was elected 
to the presidency of the National Association of Life Un- 
derwriters, and few men are wider known or have more 
warm personal friends than the genial and cultured gen- 
tleman who is the subject of this sketch, of whom a writer 
once said: ''The fine and distinctive personality of Mr. 
Raymond is what miakes him what he is. We might 
sweep away all business details, and all that men know 



COLO i^ EL CHARLES H. RAYMOND. 85 

and value in him would remain ineradicably stamped 
upon the memory and embalmed in the affections of those 
who call him friend. A joyous temperament, luminous 
intellect, almost inerrant sagacity, forceful initiative, wo- 
manly tenderness, brilliancy, wit, courage and generosity 
were blended in the alembic from which his nature was 
evolved. Learned in the literature of books and in the 
lore of field sports and the natural kingdom; a poet, a 
sportsman, a soldier and a mathematician; suggestive, in- 
ventive, steadfast and true, such is the man as he is known 
to the editor of this journal and to those who know him 
better." As the editor of the Insurance Times has de- 
scribed Colonel Raymond so much better than I could, 
and in fewer words, I am content to quote him and not to 
attempt to improve on his concise and truthful descrip- 
tion. 

In 1874 Mr. Edward Laverack, of Shropshire, Eng- 
land, offered for sale two of his most famous setters, Pride 
of the Border and Fairy. These were sought for by sev- 
eral sportsmen both here and abroad, and after some cor- 
respondence their breeder decided to sell them to Colonel 
Raymond, who at once arranged for their importation 
and transportation to Fox Farm. This was the first pair 
of that renowned and highly-bred strain of setters sent 
from Mr. Laverack's kennels to America, and their pres- 
ence in this country excited much attention among sports- 
men and in the sportsmen's press, both here and abroad, 
in England and on the Continent. Fairy was a great 
beauty and a natural fielder, staunch on the point and at 
backing, with great pace, fine nose and grand staying 
qualities. Pride of the Border at first seemed puzzled at 
both the scent and the habits of our quail and ruffed 
grouse, but after a short experience on both he showed 
extraordinary intelligence and brain power in working 



86 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

on his birds, and was a most admirable and satisfactory- 
field dog, working on game as closely and knowingly as 
a man could do if he had a dog's form and faculties. 
Neither of these Laverack setters retrieved game, but they 
made a rattling brace on a snipe meadow, backing on 
sight at any distance, absolutely staunch on point and 
dropping in good old-fashioned style to wing or shot. 
They still live in loving memory of many human hearts^ 
and their strain, crossed with the Morford stock, is still 
carefully bred; its inherited physical and mental qualities 
and capabilities, the resultants of generations of selection, 
training and association, making these canines as thor- 
ough workers in the field as they are affectionate and in- 
telligent friends and companions at home. They are so 
human that it is often said of them, "They think them- 
selves folks," and the best in the house, be it window-seat, 
lounge or hearth-rug, is never too good, in their own way 
of taking it, for these two comprehensive and compre- 
hending members of the family. Nevertheless, unlike 
Squire Kayse's famous pointer Lee, of Sussex county, N. 
J., these setters can't catch fish with hook and line, and if 
they have occupied much space in this narrative it is be- 
cause they deserve it. No sketch of Colonel Raymond 
would be complete without an extended notice of this im- 
portation of some of the best blooded setters of England, 
and of their having been bred to some of the native stock, 
for which American lovers of high-class setters will ever 
be under obligations to Colonel Charles H. Raymond. 

During the period that the Fox Farm Kennels were in 
existence it was my fortune to be a guest of the proprietor 
and to talk bird dog as well as turtles with him, while pick- 
ing the wing of a partridge at his table. I have long since 
forgiven him for saying that Nell was imperfectly broken 
and would not "back a point." Of course she would not 



COLONEL CHARLES H. RAYMOND. 87 

back, because she never hunted with another dog until he 
had her. How could she? That is not just what trou- 
bled me. There was an insinuation that at eighteen years 
old I could not train a bird dog to perfection. That thing 
tasted sour forty years ago, but to-day it looks as if my 
cousin Charles may have been right. 

It is many years since I have cared to shoot anything 
except ducks, which come to hand dead. I have grown 
tender-hearted, and say, with lago, "Though in the trade 
of war I have slain men," yet I have cried over a doe 
whose fore-shoulders I had broken, and refused to shoot 
more when my retriever brought a live quail to be killed 
by hand. Therefore fishing came to be the more enjoya- 
ble sport, because there was no regret when the lower 
form of life was taken, no keen sufifering, because of a 
lower nervous system; but there is always a latent interest 
in any kind of sport in which a man has once engaged. 
To prove this it is only necessary to point to the fact that 
Colonel Raymond still has a faint liking for fishing. Not 
for the kind which we had in boyhood, for it is possible 
that a pond full of painted and spotted tortoises, or a pool 
full of frogs with an assortment of stones at hand, would 
hardly be attractive to him to-day. He is blase on turtles, 
frogs and sunfish, and needs more exciting game and a 
broader field. He fishes occasionally, incidentally, as it 
were, when nothing better ofifers in the way of sport. 
Every June he visits, as a guest. Camp Albany on the 
Restigouche River, and there he occasionally casts for, 
and even occasionally lands, a fine salmon; but I fancy he 
does this in a perfunctory way, because there is nothing 
else to be done. How I would like to stand on the bank 
End criticise his fly-casting, and thereby get revenge for 
his remarks on the training of Nell! 

The owners of Camp Albany are Messrs. Dudley OI~ 



88 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

cutt and Abram Lansing, of Albany, N. Y,, two skilled 
and accomplished salmon anglers, learned in all the in- 
tricate lore of that grand art; but it can hardly be possible 
that Colonel Raymond, lacking, as he is, in that virtue of 
patience which alone bears good results to the angler, can 
profit by their precepts and example; yet he occasionally 
sends a fine salmon to a friend, and as Colonel Olcutt and 
Mr. Lansing both say that he actually catches them, I am 
certain that he does ; and the fact that there are no bullet 
holes in them proves that his Jock-Scott, silver-doctor, or 
other combination of hair, fur, feathers and steel can be 
cast by my friend with occasional efifect. 

Later, in November, and on the ducking shore, it is 
different. Then the gallant Colonel is himself again, and 
no doubt returns the compliment to his friends of Camp 
Albany and sets them a pace which may worry them to 
follow. Shooting from a blind, over decoys — that truly 
Presidential sport, the great delight of the sportsman of 
or past middle age, when the long tramp over hill and 
through marsh after pointer or setter seems now to re- 
quire more exertion than it did in youth — has a fascina- 
tion for Mr. Raymond, and a better appointed shooting- 
box than his at San Domingo, on the Gunpowder River, 
I fancy would be hard to find; and few, indeed, are the 
places where better sport has been found. But duck 
shooting, like all other earthly joys, must have its day and 
fade away. Each year the ducks are fewer and their 
flights further between, so that ere many more years in 
their turn shall have flown the canvasbacks and redheads 
will have gone to join the once countless flocks of passen- 
ger pigeons and the innumerable caravans of the bisons, 
"and the places that knew them," throughout our broad 
land, from Alaska to Florida, "shall know them no more 
forever." 



THE BROCKWAY BOYS. 

MICHIGAN IN '49— MY FIRST TURKEY. 

THERE seemed to be no end to them. The woods 
were literally full of them — of Brockway boys, I 
mean. Boys, and girls also, from babies to men 
and women, they were everywhere I went. This ceased 
to be surprising after my uncle, Erastus Brockway, had 
driven mother and me from Monroe to his home at East 
Ogden, in Lenawee county, Mich., and after crossing the 
county line pointed out each house for miles as being 
owned by one of "his numerous kinsmen, until it seemed 
to my boyish fancy that all Michigan must be peopled by 
Brockways. 

The fact is that mother's two brothers, older than she, 
had emigrated to Michigan in the early thirties, while it 
was yet a territory; each had a large family, and at this 
time they had grandsons older than I, for their many sons 
had followed the parental example in the matter of replen- 
ishing the earth. 

Mother was an invalid, and the journey from Albany 
to Buffalo was made by canal, and from the latter place to 
Monroe by steamer. The packets which carried 'passen- 
gers on the canal had been about killed o& by the railroad, 
and we had good quarters in a large freight boat, the cap- 
tain giving up his cabin to us and a woman with two boys. 
It was an ideal trip. In 1875 I had frequent occasion to 
go from Lynchburg to Lexington, Va., up the James 
River and Kenawha Canal, and it is my mature opinion 

89 



90 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

that traveling by canal is the very poetry of traveling; it is 
the ideal mode of getting about. This statement is often 
met with ridicule — "it is too slow." My friend, listen: 
You who say this know little of the pleasure of travel for 
itself. You wish to annihilate space in a business-like 
way; you want to go from New York to Chicago, and 
consult the time-tables for the train which will land you 
there an hour sooner than another, and you take a 
"sleeper" — that abomination rendered necessary by mer- 
ciless business ! — and you go that way even on your wed- 
ding trip! Go to! The mad American train-catching spirit 
has possessed you, and, like my friend. Col. Raymond, of 
my last sketch, you "can fish if they bite fast." The pleas- 
ures of that week on the Erie Canal often arise as I whirl 
over the route in late years. Little Falls! There we boys 
jumped ashore and stole apples and caught the boat at the 
locks. Weedsport! Here we got off on the "heel-path" 
side and ran into the outlying edge of Montezuma Swamp 
and had to swim the canal, when I was the only good 
swimmer, and, after carrying all the clothes across and 
safely landing the smallest boy, was forced to lick the 
older one in the water to keep him from drowning me. 
His story to his mother conflicted with mine; his black- 
ened eyes and swollen nose seemed to prove his claim to 
have been beaten without provocation, but mothers will 
be mothers, you know, and there was a drop in the social 
mercury. 

Pardon me; the canal took me off into the swamp, 
miles away from the Brock-way. I will try to get back 
to the Brockway boys, as I knew my cousins and sons of 
cousins away back in Michigan in the long ago. 

Jim was a big boy — nearly a man. He could not only 
smoke a cigar, but could also empty a clay pipe without 
any visible protest from his stomach. He was big and 



THE BROCKWAY BOYS. 91 

strong, and could beat us all at jumping, and was one of 
the younger sons of the oldest of the brothers, Eusebius, 
or Uncle Sebe, as he was called — a man who, at sixty-nine 
years of age, was entered for a foot-race the first day I 
saw him. Martin and Oliver were smaller boys, sons of 
Erastus, who, by the way, was many years younger than 
his brother, physically much weaker, but intellectually 
stronger. Jim could throw me by sheer weight and 
strength; Clark or the others of his age could not, for 
wrestling and boxing had been my study as well as play. 
This put me on a good square footing with my backwoods 
cousins, who had little respect for my soft hands and city 
ways. They had small facilities for schooling, but great 
opportunities for clearing land for the plough, chopping 
trees that had been deadened by the girdle, piling great 
logs for burning that a few years later would have been 
worth more than the land originally cost. Harvesting 
the hard-earned crops had given them a rude strength 
that made it seem incomprehensible how a city boy, who 
couldn't pitch a fork full of hay into the mow, could lay 
them on their backs. From a subject for ridicule this 
city boy came to be respected, especially when they found 
that he could turn a back somersault from the floor and 
alight on his feet. They had seen pictures of such things, 
but to find an ordinary boy outside a circus turn a flip- 
flap was a thing that made him a hero. My city manners 
and fine fishing tackle were all forgotten, and the Brock- 
way boys from far and near were invited to come and see 
their cousin, who in a few hours had overcome all preju- 
dice and was voted to be a really decent fellow. 

Said Jim : "Let's go a-fishin' ; what yer say? We'll take 
a team and wagon and go over to the River Raisin and 
have a good time — yes?" And we went, about six of us. 
There was William, twenty-eight years old, a hunter of 



92 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

deer and turkeys, who owned a rifle that became mine 
some years later; Jim, Martin, Oliver, Mathew and 
others whose names are forgotten, but all brothers, cou- 
sins or uncles to each other, and a jolly party they were. 
Harvest was over, and threshing, corn-husking and such 
work had not begun; just the time for a fishing trip. An 
early start and a drive of ten miles behind a good team 
brought us to the house of another relative — for, as before 
said, the woods were full of Brockways. The team was 
cared for, and a walk of half an hour brought us to the 
river. They cut poles and rigged up their lines with float 
and sinker and with worms for bait. They had said that 
the river contained pickerel, and I tied on some very small 
hooks and with a little switch caught several minnows 
while they were taking a few catfish, sunfish and others. 
Grins went around, and Martin asked: "Is that the kind 
o' fishin' you do down in York State?" 

"Yes, sometimes." 

"It 'pears like small kind o' fishin'," said Jim; "don't 
ye ever ketch bigger fish 'n that when you go a-fishin' 
'bout Albany?" 

"Yes, sometimes." 

"Mighty small eatin', them things," said another; 
"guess you've got to get yer specs on to see 'em when 
they're cooked. I wouldn't take 'em home if you'd gi' 
me a cartload. Here, take my pole an' fish for fish that's 
worth having." 

By this time there were half a dozen live minnows in 
the little water-hole scooped in the bank, and, reaching 
for my pole, I bent on about twenty feet of line a fair-sized 
hook with a gimp snell — another new thing to the boys — 
and hooking a minnow through the lips I cast and skit- 
tered it, a trick learned from Old Port Tyler on the Pop- 
skinny in the spring before. All except William, the old- 



THE BROCKWAY BOYS. 93 

est "boy," haw-hawed out loud; he simply watched the 
curious performance. Cast after cast was made, when a 
garfish took the lure and was landed — a strange fish to 
me, but no stranger to the others, who with one accord 
voted him "no good." They had all stopped to watch 
this way of fishing, which now was proved capable of tak- 
ing a gar at least, but when a pickerel of about eighteen 
inches long came in it was my moment of triumph. If 
this (to them) crazy mode of fishing had not been a suc- 
cess that morning ridicule would have been my portion. 
I had known that from the remarks at the beginning, so, 
turning around, I said: "Yes, Jim, we often catch bigger 
fish than that when we go a-fishin' about Albany;" and 
William, who had said nothing, borrowed a hook on gimp 
and arranged to skitter, while Martin and Jim went catch- 
ing minnows for the same purpose. When you beat a 
man or boy at a game he thinks peculiarly his own, he 
suddenly develops a respect for your abilities — perhaps 
beyond their real deserts. 

William and others took some good fish by skittering, 
and altogether we had a fine lot, something like two hun- 
dred pounds of fish, many strange kinds to me, including 
pickerel (pike, we call them now), suckers, a strange 
green sunfish, a strange catfish, as well as the familiar 
bullhead and the common yellow perch. There was also 
a "dogfish," strange in that day, and, stranger still, this 
last-named fish and the gars were said to be uneatable. I 
had supposed that all fresh- water fishes were eatable, even 
the suckers in winter, only, like the beer story, "some's 
better 'n others." We were all learning. When the 
whole catch was collected it was divided into as many 
parts as there were houses to be passed on the road home, 
some fifteen or twenty, and strings arranged to be left at 
each, with a special one containing choice kinds for a 



94 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

widow, and we rattled home in short time under a full 
moon. 

Going among people whose whole life, training and 
mode of thought is different from my own has not been 
an uncommon thing, but this first experience was new, 
and at times annoying. I felt as a dime museum freak 
must feel, if he does feel. Interest in such things as 
changing autumn foliage, the form of a passing flock of 
wild geese or the strange appearance of clouds, seemed 
to my backwoods cousins to be silly; these things had 
never occurred to them as worthy of thought because 
they were every-day affairs, and to-day I know that a boy 
who has to turn out at five o'clock in the morning, milk 
the cows, feed the horses and pigs, and get ready to hoe 
corn after breakfast has no eye for the beauty of a sunrise 
any more than he has for a glorious sunset after a hard 
day's ploughing, when the horses have to be cared for, 
and all those things which a farmer calls "chores" — not 
work, by any means — have to be done before he eats his 
supper and crawls to bed, only to be awakened before 
nature tells him that he has slept enough. Yes, to-day 
it is plain why the city boy was a "freak." He had no 
"chores" to do at home. He could breakfast at eight, go 
to school at nine, and after four o'clock he had leisure to 
observe the change of foliage, the flight of wild geese and 
the colors of the sky at sunset. On Saturdays he could 
shoot and fish, and there was a six weeks' vacation when 
the only things he had to obey were his instincts. 

Lenawee county was marshy in many places. It was 
the source of water flowing east into Lake Erie, west into 
Lake Michigan, and south into Ohio. The country was 
heavily timbered, and the phlebotomizing mosquito was 
abroad in the land. We boys slept in the barn to avoid 
them. Boys came from nearby houses for the frolic in 



THE BROCKWAY BOYS. 95 

the hay, old and young boys, sometimes a dozen or more. 
Uncle Erastus did not object to their sleeping there, but 
did forbid card playing; whether he objected to cards at all 
times or only to the lights necessary to their use among 
his hay we did not know. One day, after a little talk lead- 
ing that way as we sat in the house, he said : "I suppose 
the boys have a game of cards once in a while in the 
barn?" this in an inquiring sort of way. 

"They couldn't play cards in the dark," I answered; 
"they'd have to have lights for that. There ! What was 
that big bird that passed the window?" and I ran out to 
see. 

The next day mother said: "Fred, did you find out 
what kind of a bird it was passed the window when your 
uncle asked you about playing cards in the barn?" 

"No, ma'am; it was gone " 

"Yes, it was probably gone before you saw it; but I'm 
glad that you did not tell on the boys nor lie to your 
uncle. Do they play cards there nights?" 

"Yes'm, but William said not to tell uncle, and Jim 
threatened to lick me if I did, and I hope he won't ask me 
any more. I'll lie to him if he does." 

"No, you mustn't lie to any one, and I am glad you told 
the truth to me. I knew they played cards and had can- 
dles there, for I saw the light through a crack that their 
blankets did not cover, as I walked out last evening," 

Oliver had heard this and said afterward: "Golly! but 
you got out of that scrape nicely; if you had told your 
mother the boys didn't play cards in the barn she'd 'a' had 
you, sure," 

"Well, Oliver, I was in a corner, but I never tell 
mother a thing that is not so, nor father either, and I try 
to be truthful all the time, but it's hard work sometimes. 
There was no other way to dodge your father than to see 



96 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

a big bird and run out, but before that I fear that what I 
said was almost a fib, but I wouldn't tell on the boys." 

"That's all right. Martin wants to know when you 
want to go after the blind snipe we started the other day. 
What was it you called 'em?" 

"Woodcock; say to-morrow." 

"O. K.; there's a spaniel over at Uncle Sebe's that 
William trees pa'tridges with ; don't know how he'll do on 
these birds; nobody shoots 'em here. I never saw more'n 
three or four in my life, and never thought they were 
plenty." 

The spaniel was not a promising dog for the work, but 
we started. In the talk about woodcock shooting some- 
thing was said about shooting them on the wing, and 
Martin almost shouted: "What! You don't mean to say 
you shoot 'em a-flyin'?" And here again was a surprise; 
but the success of skittering for pickerel was in mind, and 
there was no ridicule, but an amount of curiosity to see 
the thing done. Such a thing had never been heard of, 
and on a small scale it resembled the experience of 
Colonel Raymond in an adjoining county a year or two 
later. I had William's light double gun, and Clark car- 
ried a single one, while Oliver was to look after the dog. 
When we reached the bog where we had kicked up a bird 
before when crossing it, Oliver started with the dog to 
try and quarter the ground somehow, as I had explained 
to him; but it was queer work, for Dick had no idea of 
woodcock, and being used to ranging out of sight for 
ruflfed grouse, and barking to call his master when he 
found one, we had hard work to keep him in sight. Mar- 
tin kicked up a bird, and I fired and missed it; but as it 
dropped behind some bushes he insisted that it dropped 
dead. He had a long cord in his pocket, and proposed 
to tie Dick and keep him with us, and as Oliver was bring- 



THE BROCKWAY BOYS. 97 

ing the dog- he flushed one that came our way and I killed 
it. The boys thought this wonderful and the bird the 
strangest they had ever seen. 

"What's his eyes doin' in the back of his head?" asked 
Oliver. 

"That's so's to see who's a-comin' after him when he's 
feedin'," explained Clark; "and he can see good, too, and 
don't scare up till he thinks you're going to step on him. 
Say, I'll tell what let's do. Let's all three and the dog 
walk abreast an' kick 'em up. What d'ye say?" 

This seemed to be a good proposition, for the dog was 
of no use, and we tried it with better result than I ex- 
pected, for we succeeded in putting up eleven birds that 
morning, of which I killed five, Oliver retrieving them 
almost as soon as they were down, with the help of Dick, 
for the dog soon learned what we were after and was a 
fair retriever. The boys told of that morning's work with 
great pride, never failing to add: "An' he killed 'em all 
a-flyin'." 

On the way home one of the boys shot a big blue 
heron which was standing in meditation by a marshy 
brook, and wing-tipped it. Oliver proposed to capture it 
alive and we surrounded the bird, which had no idea of 
allowing us to catch it. Standing with head drawn for 
a stroke and with defiance in its eye, now ablaze with 
fight, and facing the one who came nearest, it was a most 
heroic figure, worthy of study by an artist. The spaniel 
essayed a hand in the fight, and then tried four spry legs 
on the homestretch after the heron stuck his spear-like 
bill in the dog's back. 

"You make a dive for him," said Oliver to us, "and 
while he is facing you, I'll get him by the legs and neck." 
He tried it, and the bird wheeled like a flash and struck 
the boy a blow on the back of the hand that rendered it 



98 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

useless for months. Martin then tried to stun him by a 
blow on the head with a stick, but the heron met him 
with a jump and a stroke at his face that luckily missed, 
or he might have been killed or lost an eye. We learned 
something of the fighting qualities of a blue heron that 
was new to us all. I had not been as rash as the others, 
for Port Tyler had told me how one had made a dent in 
the stock of his gun ; and after seeing what Oliver and the 
dog got I had great respect for a wounded heron, which, 
by the way, the boys called a "crane" as they took him to 
the house dead. 

We made several trips to the river and each time had 
fine sport. Martin once had a big turtle on his hook, 
which fortunately was strong, and the turtle was landed. 
But it was a singular beast. In the last story it is related 
how the collecting of turtles was a fad of early boyhood, 
and I thought I knew them all, yet here was one with a 
soft, flat shell which felt like wet sole leather, a snout like 
a pig's, and a temper as savage as that of a snapping tur- 
tle. Verily Michigan had singular fishes and turtles, but 
no unfamiliar bird had been seen so far; but that was to 
come, and in a way to be remembered. 

"Ever shoot a wild turkey?" asked Jim. 

"No, never saw one; we don't have 'em about Al- 
bany." 

"I'll get you a shot at one if you'll come over to my 
house," said he, "and you won't have to go far for it. I 
know where it feeds every day." 

If I had known the whole story, or how it was going to 
turn out, perhaps the turkey might have lived longer; but 
Jim had an idea of getting some fun out of either me, the 
turkey or some other thing. It happened that a neighbor 
of his had a flock of white turkeys which ranged the 
woods, and a stray young wild turkey fed with the tame 



THE BROCKWAY BOYS. 99 

birds, meeting them in the morning and leaving them in 
the evening, when they went home. A boy about Jim's 
age, whose people owned the flock of white turkeys, knew 
of this wild one, and had marked it for his meat later 
on. Jim went with me and posted me behind a fallen 
log, and I killed the turkey and started for the road to 
find Jim, when a big boy appeared and claimed the bird. 
Now the killing of that turkey had not a bit of sportsman- 
ship in it and was nothing to be proud of, but it was a wild 
turkey and mine. I refused to give up my game. 

"This is not one of your turkeys; yours are white." 

"I say it's mine, and I'm going to have it. That 
sneakin' Jim Brockway sot you up to kill my turkey; he 
dassn't kill it himself, but I'll have it." 

"You won't get it. Jim Brockway is down in the road 
yonder, an' if you call him a sneak he'll lick you." 

"Jim Brockway can't lick one side o' me, nur you an' 
him together. Gi' me that turkey," and he pushed me. 
I set the gun back against a log and tossed the turkey 
behind it. He was bigger and stronger than I, but les- 
sons from Shel. Hitchcock, Albany's teacher of sparring, 
gave me confidence, if he could be kept from a "catch-as- 
catch-can" hold. He struck an awkward swinging blow 
and got a stinger on the ear. He was astonished, but 
made a rush, which was avoided, and took one on the 
nose, which, as Professor Sheldon Hitchcock would have 
said, "brought the claret." So far I was unharmed ex- 
cept for my right hand, which has never been equal to the 
biceps which drove it, and I had only learned to use the 
left as a guard. He gathered himself and struck straight 
this time, but I dodged and upper-cut him on the jaw, and, 
in the language of the Professor, "he grassed." By this 
time Jim appeared. He had seen it all, but affected sur- 
prise. 



100 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

"Hello!" said he, "what's this all about?" 

The fellow picked himself up and said: "You know 
what it's all about, Jim Brockway, and I'll get square on 
you for it some day, you mind." 

"Why don't you get square with this boy?" said Jim, 
in a tantalizing manner. "You seem to have had some 
trouble with him. I don't know what it's about." 

"I'll tell you, Jim," said I; "I killed a turkey and he 
claims it; there it is, a wild one, and everybody knows 
that all the tame turkeys about here are white, so't they 
can tell 'em from wild ones. Come on, Jim; he don't 
want that turkey now, 'cause he said he was goin' to take 
it, but he didn't." 

On returning to the house of Uncle Erastus with the 
turkey, which was doubly mine now, first by right of hav- 
ing reduced it to possession and again by the gauge of 
battle, mother at once saw the condition of my hand, now 
painfully swollen, and, mother-like, wanted to know what 
had happened. I answered: "Mother, if I should try to 
tell you just how I injured my hand in shooting a wild 
turkey the story might get twisted, and I was excited so 
much that I might be mistaken. Jim will be over to- 
night. He was there and knows all about it ; let him tell 
it." This must have made her curiosity almost boil over, 
for there was a mystery, but she was one of those stoical 
people whose faces never give an indication of either curi- 
osity, pleasure or pain, so she said: "Very well," and 
waited. After hearing Jim's version of the turkey hunt 
she never referred to it afterward. She may have de- 
tailed the whole afifair to father, but when I said, one day 
after getting home: "Father, I killed a wild turkey out in 
Michigan," he only asked: "How much did it weigh?" 

My cousin, Mrs. Gilleland, of Adrian, Mich., wrote 
me a year ago: "William H. is now living at Somerset 



THE BROCKWAY BOYS. 101 

Center; Jim died in '67. Of my brothers, Clark died 
when twenty-four years old; Oliver died in Anderson- 
ville prison; Mathew lost a leg at Vicksburg; Alonzo was 
in the army, but came out comparatively well; Martin B. 
was in Andersonville twenty-one months, and is now liv- 
ing at Petersburg, Mich." 

I do not know what became of the fellow who claimed 
the turkey. I knew his name at the time, but I remember 
that he didn't get the bird. 



CAPTAIN IRA WOOD. 

STRIPED BASS IN FRESH WATER — EARLY GREENBUSH. 

I KNEW him better in after years, for he was only a 
child when he left Greenbush, and while his older 
brother, Reuben, oversaw the capture of my first fish, 
as before recorded, it was some years later before I had 
the pleasure of fishing with Ira. Along in the early '50's, 
perhaps in 1852 or '53, he came from his home in Syra- 
cuse to Albany and called on me. He was then a young 
man of medium height, closely knit, muscular, and the 
owner of a deep chest voice, which was pleasant and melo- 
dious. He had been an actor, and had an engagement in 
the theatre at Albany to play old men's or other parts, and 
next week I was to go with him to the theatre to his 
dressing-room. Like many other young fellows, I had 
thought the stage a most desirable place to strut a brief 
hour, although my choice did not lay in his direction. 
Stars did not travel with their own companies then, but 
depended for support on the stock companies, and as they 
usually had two or three different plays each week the 
members of the company had to study hard, and there 
was always an after-piece. But this was a rare treat for 
me. I knew Charley Kane, the low comedian, who also 
tortured the bass drum in Johnny Cooke's brass band, 
and Shel. Hitchcock, my sparring tutor, who raised the 
curtain ; but this did not give me the privilege of the stage 
door. Ira did. 

The week opened with Mr. Eddy as the star. Ira 
102 



CAPTAIN IRA WOOD. 103 

played Brabantio to his Othello, but who the lago was is 
forgotten. For a boy of eighteen or nineteen Ira's make- 
up as the "reverend signior" was excellent, and he filled 
the dignified part well, as many said. Eddy was an actor 
of the robust school of Forrest and not unlike him in man- 
ner, and would bear nothing that would even slightly , 
mar one of his scenes. Ira also played with Mr. Eddy in 
"Richard III." that week, and afterward with Couldock and 
other stars of those days. I do not remember seeing him 
in comedy except once, and that was as Sir Anthony Ab- 
solute, in "The Rivals," with Mrs. John Drew as Mrs. 
Malaprop, with her "derangement of epitaphs," but for- 
get who played Bob Acres and Sir Lucius O'Trigger. 

One day Ira wanted to go fishing, said he had only 
some four hours after the morning rehearsal, and did not 
want to put in all his time in going and coming to the 
fishing grounds and back. Evidently the Popskinny was 
too far on the east side of the river, and the Normanskill 
equally so on the Albany side. Fishing off the dock for 
such strays as might pass had ceased to be attractive as 
manhood approached, and after a moment of hesitation I 
said : "Have you ever fished for striped bass in the river 
here?" 

"No," said he, "the only fishing I have ever done is on 
the inland streams and on Onondaga Lake. I don't 
know what a striped bass is like. If they are near here 
and there is a chance to get one or two let's try it. How 
big are they?" 

"Down in salt water they grow big. Up here they 
run up to half a pound. Meet me at the State Street 
Bridge at any hour you name and I will be ready with 
everything that we need." Naturally all these conversa- 
tions in the long ago are reproduced in substance in the 
words that memory suggests as she recalls the facts; no 



104 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

stenographer was present. When Ira came he found a 
boat hired from old John Cassidy, who had a fleet to let, 
and it was provided with long ropes and anchors at each 
end — one of those wide, flat-bottomed scows, built like 
the Dutchman's wife, who said: "She vas so besser built 
for sittin' down as for runnin' " — and we rowed out of the 
basin under the Hamilton Street Bridge, for there was a 
bridge to the pier in those days, and out into the river 
opposite the foot of Dallius Street, which bears another 
name now. We dropped anchor just on the eastern edge 
of the channel ; I knew the ranges well in those days, be- 
fore bridges over the river were built, and their piers had 
changed the currents and filled in the creek behind the 
island opposite the city, where we boys fished and swam. 

After dropping one anchor, we brought the boat 
across the current and dropped the other. There is a tide 
at Albany except when the great freshets come down. The 
water in those days at ordinary stages varied from one to 
two feet at high and low tides, but even on flood tides 
there was always a current down stream, weak or strong, 
as the tide might be flood or ebb. Therefore we could 
fish from the lower side of the boat, no matter how the tide 
was. I opened a two-quart tin pail. "What's that stuff?" 
asked Ira. 

"That's sturgeon spawn, for bait." He made no re- 
ply, but watched the production of some linen thread, and 
a lot of white mosquito netting, which was cut into four- 
inch squares. Then I rigged him a hand line with sinker, 
about two feet above which was a hook on a one-foot 
snell. Above the hook was tied one foot of linen thread, 
and, putting a quantity of sturgeon eggs in a square of 
netting, it was fastened about the hook by the thread and 
cast far out down stream. I had learned this mode of 
fishing from my brother Harleigh, who, with Uncle John 



CAPTAIN IRA WOOD. 105 

Wilson, the ship carpenter, and John Ruyter, the tanner, 
were the only ones who practised it about Albany. It 
was an art. The fly-fisher may curl his lip if he pleases, 
but I am a fly-fisher to-day, and will say that to take small 
striped bass by this mode is more difficult than to take a 
trout on an artificial fly, after the novice has learned the 
trick of casting. 

In order to explain this mode of fishing I will tell it as 
I probably did to Ira, premising that the mode is obsolete 
because the sturgeon in the Hudson are nearly obsolete; 
or, if not, their eggs, instead of being thrown away, as in 
the "good old days," are now made into caviare, which 
men otherwise truthful have said was a delicacy, and the 
Albany angler no longer fishes in this way. Perhaps the 
young striped bass, which only ascended the river to feed 
on the spawn of the shad and the sturgeon, may also be 
obsolete in these waters. 

"Now, Ira," said I, in obedience to instructions under 
Harleigh, "hold your line taut. When you feel the light- 
est touch give a twitch as though you didn't want a fish 
to have a taste of your bait. A bass will quickly follow 
the hook and you will feel it again. Keep this up, hand 
under hand, until you either feel them wiggle on the hook 
or they abandon it. In either case haul in, for the bait is 
gone or the fish is hooked. Don't allow a bit of nibbling 
or the bait is lost. Snatch it from them as if you did not 
want them to have it, until in despair they make a rush 
and take hook and all. Allow no sampling and sifting of 
the eggs through the netting." 

After a while he got the hang of it, losing much bait in 
the meantime, and we took quite a number of small 
striped bass in the only mode of taking this fish near Al- 
bany, where they were rarely found outside the channel 
of the river, that I knew. Fish of half a pound were con- 



106 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

sidered big ones, but Captain John Hitchcock, a retired 
river man, who fished from the steamboat landing almost 
daily, once caught one of two pounds weight. While we 
were fishing we saw young shad, perhaps two or three 
inches long, rising near the boat, apparently after such 
loose sturgeon eggs as might escape through the netting 
or were dropped from the boat. With destructive man 
in addition to all these eaters of sturgeon eggs it is no 
wonder that "Albany beef" is no longer found in the mar- 
kets of that city. The great fish held its own for un- 
counted centuries against all these enemies, the greatest 
of which was the eel, but man upset the balance that 
nature had kept and the sturgeon has nearly followed the 
buffalo, the wild pigeon and other beasts and birds which 
man has pursued for market, and has not been saved from 
extinction by artificial propagation, as he has saved the 
shad and some other fishes. We did not philosophize on 
these things then. We were boys and life was before us. 
The future of the sturgeon troubled us as little as the 
precession of the equinoxes or the differential calculus. 
Boylike, our mental vision was bounded by the year, and 
a year was a long time then. It was so long from one 
Christmas to another. A man of thirty had lived a great 
while, we thought, and the disrespectful boys of Green- 
bush prefixed "old" to the name of every man over fifty. 
This reminiscence is brought up by Ira's questions. 

"Does old Hogeboom let the boys go in swimmin' off 
the dock now?" 

The man referred to was a justice of the peace, an office 
which he held for years, but from my earliest recollection 
I never heard him called anything but "old" Hogeboom. 
Once my mother expressed surprise that I had returned 
from a swimming trip in the island creek so soon. 
"Yes'm," said I, "we on'y just got nicely in when ole 



CAPTAIN IRA WOOD. 107 

Morns came down and drove us out." She said: "Don't 
let me ever hear you call Mr. Morris 'old Morris;' you 
should have said: 'Mr. John Morris drove us out.'" 
Therefore I said to Ira: 

"No, Squire Hogeboom," with emphasis on the 
Squire, "doesn't allow us to go in off the village dock, but 
there's good swimmin' off the rafts over there by the 
island." 

He thought a moment and said: "There's one thing 
sure, I've got to quit the theatre or begin a course of 
study that I never thought of. I must learn dancing, 
fencing, music and a whole mess of things if I continue 
in it. I thought that a little knowledge of elocution was 
all that was needed, and I got a little of that and went 
ahead. It is all up-hill work, and I think it is best to 
quit. Reub says that old Genet gives fencing lessons yet, 
if he's living; is he alive?" 

With mother's lesson in mind I answered: "Yes, Gen- 
eral Genet is alive," again with emphasis on the title for 
Ira's benefit, "and he is the same skillful swordsman that 
he always was, and as he is still going around selling 
building lots in Greenbush, with no buyers, the chances 
are that he will be glad to give you lessons." If Ira was 
beside me now he would be reminded of his irreverence 
and told, what he may have learned in after years, that 
his fencing master was a son of the illustrious "Citizen" 
Genet who figured in our Revolutionary times. In after 
years Ira had the reputation of being a good swordsman, 
and while he was learning I picked up a point or two 
which was of service in garrison when the neck of a cham- 
pagne bottle was to be severed at a clean stroke, "but I 
anticipate" you may be told of this when ex-President 
Arthur is under the searchlight. 

After all his lessons in fencing, and his studies in other 



108 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

directions, Ira shook the dust of the stage from his feet, 
left Thespis, Melpomene and other more or less reputable 
goddesses behind him and sought other fields. We did 
not meet again for many years. Boys do not care for 
each other as men do, if they take the trouble to care for 
any one except their royal selves, and we went our ways, 
but somehow we were thrown together again ; perhaps by 
some occult fatalism of which we then, and I now, know 
nothing, for on a review of life to-day no man is recalled 
whose early ideas so fully accorded with my own. He 
never thought of accumulating wealth. A powerful 
physique enabled him to disregard all thoughts of health 
and a romantic disposition led him to seek adventure. 
Without consultation we both went away in the same 
year, he to the army and I to try a different but equally 
adventurous life. 

Ira Wood enlisted February i8, 1854, in the Engineer 
Corps, U. S. A., at Boston, Mass., for five years. He was 
under instruction at West Point for a while and was then 
employed on Fort Sumter, at Charleston ; Fort Taylor, at 
Key West, and was discharged Feb. 18, 1859, ^^ Fort Cas- 
cade, Washington Territory, by reason of expiration of 
his term of service as an artificer of Company A, First 
Lieutenant James C. Duane commanding. He had made 
application for examination for promotion to a lieuten- 
antcy, but no examination was held between the time of 
application and his discharge. 

At the call for volunteers after Fort Sumter was fired 
upon, and the regiments of State militia were found in- 
sufficient, Ira Wood raised the first company for the first 
regiment of volunteers that was organized in the State 
of New York ; but by some delay at Albany other organi- 
zations were numbered ahead of it, and the regiment left 
the State as the Twelfth New York Volunteer Infantry, 



CAPTAIN IRA WOOD. 109 

with Ira as first lieutenant of Company A. He was 
mustered into the United States service on May 13, 1861. 
During that year he participated in the battles at Black- 
burn's Ford, Bull Run and Upton's Hill, all in Virginia. 
He was promoted to captain, and mustered as such, to 
date October 29, 1861. He was engaged in the following 
battles while a captain: Near Big Bethel, siege of York- 
town, Hanover Court House, Seven Days' battle, Gaines' 
Mills, Malvern Hill, Malvern Cliff, second Bull Run, An- 
tietam and near Shepardstown. He was honorably dis- 
charged on tender of his resignation by special order. 
War Department, October 14, 1862. He resigned to be- 
come a field officer in a new regiment, but owing to the 
clamor of politicians for places for their favorites he did 
not get the appointment. While with the Twelfth a 
friend writes me : "The regiment was for a good part of 
the time commanded by Captain Wood, the senior cap- 
tain, and he was the only company commander who was 
present at every engagement up to the time he resigned. 
At Antietam he made a record with his color guard, when 
ordered to retreat, by backing off the field as much as pos- 
sible, declaring that he preferred to take the bullets in 
front." 

On leaving the army he was for a few years in the em- 
ploy of the American Express Company, and while living 
in Buffalo became a captain in the Seventy-fourth New 
York State National Guard. He then went back to Syra- 
cuse and for four and a half years was chief of the fire 
department of that city, resigning the position in October, 
1881, to travel for an Eastern manufactory of fire hose. 
Upon his resignation as chief the Board of Fire Com- 
missioners tried to induce him to remain, and passed reso- 
lutions of regret. Steamer No. i and the Hook and Lad- 
der Company presented him with an elegant desk clock, 



110 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

with an inscription commending his mode of handling 
fires. The leading citizens and merchants of Syracuse 
presented him with a costly watch in recognition of his 
efficient service. 

In 1867 Ira married Miss Brinckerhofif, of Albany, 
who, with one son, Frederic K. Wood, survives him. He 
was bom in Greenbush, N. Y., May 18, 1834, and died 
at Albany, N. Y., April 6, 1886, after an illness of only 
three days, caused by some bladder trouble. He was an 
enthusiastic Mason and Grand Army man. He attained 
the thirty-second degree of the Scottish Rite in Masonry, 
and was Adjutant of George S. Dawson Post, G. A. R., of 
Albany. He was buried with services of the G. A. R. 
and with those of the Knights Templar, these organiza- 
tions attending in uniform. It was also my privilege to 
witness the last sad rites over the friend of a lifetime, one 
of the bravest, truest and gentlest men that ever trod the 
earth. 

Ira went to Albany in 1883 as head of a branch of the 
house of Pierce, Butler & Pierce, of Syracuse. Long be- 
fore this his fame as a fly-caster and winner of prizes at 
tournaments of the State Association for Protection of 
Game, held at Rochester, Buffalo and Syracuse, had 
drifted eastward, but not until the tournament of the 
State Association was held at Coney Island in June, 1881, 
when I superintended the fly-casting contests, did we 
clasp hands since we parted in Albany, some twenty-seven 
years before. 

"Why, you old duffer! You have been in a flour mill! 
Your hair is all white! Take off your hat and I'll dust 
you off!" 

"Yes, that'll all come off, but your head is mildewed, 
and you'll have to bleach it in the sun to kill the mould." 

His record in that tournament was loi feet with a 



CAPTAIN IRA WOOD. HI 

two-handed salmon rod, a full account of which appears 
in the sketch of his brother Reuben. In the class for 
single-handed rods Reub and Ira entered. Ira had not 
got out all the line he could handle, and Frank Endicott 
said that, as his brother Reuben cast before Ira and took 
first with 75 feet, he withdrew for fear of beating his 
brother. This was probably the fact, because I had at- 
tended a State tournament after this where the contest- 
ants were Seth Green, Reuben and Ira Wood. Seth had 
a wonderful reputation as a fly-caster, and they used 
to report his casts without strict measurements, because 
his only contestants up the State were Reub and Ira, and 
Reub would not beat Seth under any circumstances; nor 
would he allow Ira to beat Seth. Once I stood on the 
casting platform. Seth had cast, and Reub had re- 
strained himself and was restraining Ira. 

"Don't you do it, Ira," said Reub; "hold it, don't beat 
the old man, it will break his heart. There now! That's 
far enough." 

"Go in, Ira," said I; "go in and win," for I never loved 
Seth as Reub did; "don't let Reub hold you back; this is 
a fair open contest, and you should win if you can." 

He didn't win; could, but wouldn't. He listened to 
his brother, and if the little fly-casting tournaments of the 
State Association had been kept up the same old farce of 
"don't you do it, Ira," would have continued. After the 
Coney Island tournament was over "The National Rod 
and Reel Association" was organized, with Francis Endi- 
cott as president, and yearly tournaments were held on 
Harlem Mere, Central Park, New York City. Here both 
Reuben and Ira were freed from Reuben's worship of 
Green, who never cared to meet Hawes, Leonard, 
Prichard and the other great fly-casters, and the scores 
of the Wood brothers are familiar to readers of Forest and 



112 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

Stream. After these meetings, when Ira and I got to talk- 
ing over old times and swapping army experiences, some- 
thing always happened to interrupt, and the loss cannot 
be repaired. 

At the tournaments in Central Park it was a common 
remark how Ira was always on the casting platform un- 
tangling the lines, tying on flies and helping the men who 
were in the contest against him; a course so opposite to 
that of the "mug hunters," which the lax rules of the As- 
sociation encouraged to enter the lists, that it could not 
have passed unnoticed. Unconsciously the subject of 
this sketch was exposing himself and his great, kind heart 
to the public, and, worst of all, to one who in later years 
chose to write him up and show him by lime-light on the 
great curtain of Forest and Stream. 

In 1885, after I had begun the stocking of the Hudson 
River with salmon, Ira organized the Eastern New York 
Fish and Game Protective Association, which still exists. 
Under date of November 18, 1885, he wrote me: "I have 
set on foot a plan for forming a club or society, to be com- 
posed of the best men in this city (Albany), to care for the 
salmon which you have planted in the Hudson, and also 
to protect all other fish and game in this region." 

In this imperfect sketch I have been greatly assisted 
by Mr. William Allen Butler, of Syracuse, N. Y., in gath- 
ering facts concerning Ira's life in that city. He tells me 
that "Captain Wood came of good old New England 
stock, being a descendant of Dr. Samuel Wood, who 
came from England in 1684, and was one of the first set- 
tlers of Danbury, Conn., in 1696. His mother was a 
Breed, and her father, with three brothers and their father, 
fought in the battle of Bunker Hill on their own farm; 
their ancestor, Allan Breed, having emigrated from Eng- 
land in 1630 with Governor Winthrop and the Puritans." 




IRA WOOD. 



CAPTAIN IRA WOOD. 113 

As a boy, Mr. Butler was one of Ira's pupils in fly-casting, 
and speaks with great enthusiasm of his teacher when he 
relates their trips to the Adirondacks. 

About a week before his death Captain Wood opened 
a store in Albany, at 1 5 Green Street, for the sale of fish- 
ing tackle and general sporting goods, with every pros- 
pect of success. Cut down by the reaper before he was 
fully ripe, those whose good fortune it was to know him 
intimately can say with Marc Antony : 

"His life was gentle; and the elements 
So mix'd in him that Nature might stand up 
And say to all the world, 'This was a man!' ** 



GENERAL MARTIN MILLER. 

SKATING, ICE-BOATING AND CAMP COOKERY. 

WITH clothing torn and bloody, his face bruised 
and cut, one eye blackened and swollen shut, 
Mat Miller came down the main street in 
Greenbush one day. Beside him walked a giant negro, 
like Eugene Aram, "with gyves upon his wrists," and in 
a condition like Mat's as to face and clothing. This sight 
so impressed me that it always came up whenever I heard 
of or saw Mr. Miller. We little boys had never seen such 
a sight, and when we learned that the colored desperado 
had been a terror to the country for miles around, and was 
a burglar, and that Constable Miller, having learned that 
he was sleeping in the old spook-house barn, had attacked 
him alone and captured him after a long and fierce fight, 
he was our hero. We learned in later years that this 
genial, fine-looking athlete was the champion wrestler of 
Rensselaer County, and at "collar and elbow" or "square 
hold" could lay the local wrestlers on their backs. But 
this capture of the powerful burglar overtopped his other 
feats. 

Some time after this event Herr Driesbach, the great 
animal trainer, wintered his menagerie in Greenbush, in 
the stables of Bill Gaines, the local racing man, on Broad- 
way, just below Columbia Street, back of Fly's brick 
store, which still stands there. In those days the circus 
and the menagerie were two distinct things. The circus 
had no animals, while the menagerie had a ring in which 
dogs and monkeys rode on ponies and appealed to that 
portion of the public which objected to men and women 

114 



GENERAL MARTIN MILLER. 115 

in tights. In early days, when my father's barges brought 
emigrants up the river to Albany, Jake Driesbach was an 
emigrant runner for a line of canal boats which took them 
to Buffalo. He then went to Germany, and returned as 
"Herr Driesbach, the world-renowned lion tamer." Boys 
were not wanted in the stables, but as father's business 
froze up when the river did, and Driesbach came to our 
house in the long evenings to play chess with father, I 
had the run of the show, to the envy of the other boys, 
who could not get in unless I chose to take them. To be 
on intimate terms with so great a man — for a lion tamer 
is the biggest kind of a man to a small boy — was indeed 
a pleasure unknown to men who were never boys. By 
that I mean those old fellows who were born "young 
men" and never had any fun. 

The privilege of seeing these animals at all times was 
something, but to witness the rehearsals that were neces- 
sary to keep both men and animals in readiness for the 
opening performance in the spring was a thing that a 
real live, full-blooded boy would naturally class as but 
little belov/ paradise, if he didn't consider it a dozen miles 
above. As the village constable, Mat Miller walked in 
the menagerie when he pleased. In fact any reputable 
citizen could; the line was drawn at boys, who might get 
hurt or into mischief. There was no steam-heating ap- 
paratus in those days, and the two elephants, the giraffe 
(the first one ever in America), the monkeys and other 
inhabitants of warm countries were in the end where the 
great stoves were. One day a chained elephant became 
scared at something; Driesbach said the animal saw a 
mouse and feared it would go up its trunk. The cage 
containing the royal Bengal tiger was overturned, and 
pandemonium, or the Cooper Union after an Anarchist 
meeting, was a Quaker assembly compared to it. The 



116 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

elephants trumpeted, lions roared, hyenas howled, mon- 
keys screamed and what the cockatoo said is lost. "Mat" 
was there, and so was Driesbach and the writer. The 
constable jumped, grabbed the cage by the top and forced 
it back to its place at the expense of a coat and a torn 
shoulder from the tiger's claws. Driesbach was astounded 
at the quickness and strength of this unassuming man, 
and offered him a lucrative position to travel with him, 
which was declined. Me? Oh, yes! After it was all 
over "Dandy" Nesbitt, the jockey, Tom Scribner and I 
were found safe under the wagon where the trick bear had 
his residence. 

Up to about 1845 there was lots of fun every year at 
"general training." This was an assembling of the uni- 
formed and the ununiformed militia for several days or a 
week's drill in camp, as required by law. The ununi- 
formed militia consisted of every man between certain 
ages, not specially exempted, who could, I think, escape 
by paying a certain sum. It was a grand spree for some 
and the guard-house was always well filled with drunks. 
When in garrison in later years this gang was known as 
Company Q. 

Martin Miller was a general of militia, but of what 
rank I never knew ; in fact, rank was unknown to us boys 
beyond the fact that there were officers and privates. It 
was my fortune to see two "general trainin's," one on the 
farm of John Morris, above the village, and the other at 
Clinton Heights. Then I think the law was changed and 
they were abolished, perhaps before 1845, ^or I was then 
old enough to remember more than two such rackets. It 
was a great event. Drums, flags, the squads of farmers' 
boys who couldn't keep step to the drum, the neat uni- 
forms of some of the companies, the usual crowd of bump- 
kins, yokels, three-card-monte men, thimble-riggers, 



GENERAL MARTIN MILLER. 117 

sweat boards, chuck-luck and other gamblers, peanuts, 
gingerbread and, above all, General Martin Miller re- 
splendent in chapeau bras, epaulet, sword and sash, 
mounted on a white horse, trying to bring order out of 
chaos. If all these things did not make soldiers for the 
State out of the rawest kind of material it certainly made 
a very large day for the small boy. 

If any one trait was more prominent than another in 
the mental make-up of General Miller it was his love of 
boys and his desire to see them have fun. Having no 
children of his own at that time, he was fond of those of 
his neighbors. Things were getting along in shape and 
the gamblers were reaping a harvest, when the General 
invited a crowd of boys to follow him if they wanted to 
see some fun. Every sweat board and chuck-luck table 
had piles of coin of all sizes and values piled up to show 
their ability to pay bets, and as the General came along- 
side of one he would wheel his horse suddenly, clap the 
spurs to him, and that gambler's coin was scattered far 
and wide, a harvest for those who could reap. Somehow 
the gamblers did not appear to Hke this, judging from 
their remarks. 

Years after this the General became a grocer, and in 
that very democratic community subsided into plain, 
every-day Mat Miller, so called by every man, woman and 
child in the village. 

We were in his store one day talking of going down to 
the Popskinny for a couple of days' fishing and to camp 
in Rivenburg's barn in the hay. 

"What do you boys do down there at night?" he asked. 
"Perhaps you raid Teller's potato patch and roast his po- 
tatoes with his fence rails. I think I'll go along to keep 
you straight." 

"Come along," said Billy Shaw, "we'll let you gather 



118 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

drift-wood, and then you'll know whether we use fence 
rails or not." 

"Yes," chipped in John Atwood, "and you can hook 
the potatoes, too, if you want 'em. We never trouble the 
farmers and they don't trouble us. We take our grub 
along and just cook a few fish." 

Billy Atwood, a boy who seldom said anything, re- 
marked: "Mat might go and milk some of Rivenburg's 
cows if he wants to eat his fish in milk," a reference to a 
man who was said to have tried this dish on recommenda- 
tion of one Harleigh Mather, whose humor lay in such 
things. This man was known as "Suckers and Milk" un- 
til life became a burden to him and he moved away. This 
same irreverent joker in after years replied to a clergy- 
man who wished to know how to cook frogs: "Oh, we 
stew them just as we do bats." I do not approve of this 
sort of thing except when I do it myself. 

Rivenburg's barn was only used to store hay in until 
it ciould be pressed into bales and sent off, therefore it was 
empty most of the year, but there was always enough 
loose hay left to sleep in. It was one of the finest barns 
you ever saw, for ventilation. The doors were off the 
hinges and were propped up by poles. We did not dis- 
turb them, but walked in from whichever side was con- 
venient. The double doors were, if I remember, a trifle 
larger than the other holes. 

John Atwood had brought the worms for bait in some 
old mustard boxes, and we assured Mat that they were 
not brought in the coffee-pot because that had been kept 
hidden in the barn as part of our permanent outfit, along 
with the frying-pan and tin cups. Hot coffee, fried 
sausages and other things saw us comfortably fed by sun- 
down. Great clouds came up and the wind shook the 
barn and we hurried to the tightest corner as the storm 



GENERAL MARTIN MILLER. 119 

suddenly broke over us. The thunder made the barn 
shake and it could not have rained harder. Flash after 
flash came so fast, and the thunder followed so quickly 
that one could hardly note the interval. Heaven's artil- 
lery opened right over us, and every fellow was doing his 
own thinking and keeping it to himself. Billy Shaw was 
the exception. He ventured to remark : "Maybe you fel- 
lows like this, but I wish I was home!" That broke the 
spell, and he was nearly smothered in the hay which they 
piled on him. During this smothering of Shaw I saw, or 
believe I saw, a flash of lightning shoot up from the 
ground. It was so close to the barn that it seemed as if a 
man had shot a gun in the air. Two boards were oflf that 
side and there was no man there. If such a thing ever 
occurs, I saw an instance of it; if it does not I was de- 
ceived. No hole in the ground was visible in the morn- 
ing, but half a century has not dimmed the picture. 

Such a rain never lasts long, and soon the stars were 
shining, and we rebuilt the little fire, and with dry ma- 
terial from the barn for seats were enjoying life, when 
the sound of oars was heard, and soon the lapping of the 
water under the bottom of a little scow told that a boat 
was near. 

"Halt! Who comes there?" was the challenge of the 
General. 

Bill Atwood, John's younger brother, who had already 
shown symptoms of nautical bacteria which eventually 
dragged him to a sailor's life, hailed the coming craft 
with : "Aboard the scow ! Pull on yer starb'd oar or you'll 
foul our cofifee-pot!" 

A few more strokes and the boat was beached and out 
stepped the old trapper, Port Tyler. "Where's that cof- 
fee-pot?" said he. "I'm wet an' cold, and some hot cofifee 
is just what I want. No, thanks, nothing to eat; I've got 



120 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

lots. Why, Mat Miller! What you doin' here campin' 
out with these boys? I see ye all go by when I was hid 
in the lilypads around the bend yonder watchin' for wood 
ducks, an' I knowed the hull lot on'y Mat, an' I'd a 
knowed him ef I'd a-suspected he'd come a-campin' with 
you boys. What're ye up to, Mat? Burglars or thieves 
been on the island, or are ye on'y lookin' up the boys 
that's just come of age and just goin' to vote for the first 
time this fall?" 

"Sit down here," said the General; "get outside of this 
warm coffee. I'm not looking for you, but there's a 
widow up there at John Morris' rope-walk that is, and 
she'll get you, too, if you don't look out." 

This was a clean knock-out, for if ever there was a 
man who was shy of a woman it was that confirmed old 
bachelor. Port Tyler. 

The stars twinkled. Venus, just about to disrobe 
and retire for the night, winked at Polaris, the night 
clerk, and hid herself behind Bethlehem woods. A 
night heron said "quawk" in a derisive tone, and even 
the little barn owl seemed unduly hilarious as it alighted 
on the gable of the barn with a field-mouse. Then there 
was a vast wave of silence that rose like the battle waves 
of Ossian and overflowed the lands on either side of the 
historic Popskinny. Miller's shot struck home, and the 
bashful trapper took it in silence. Not a leaf stirred. 
Billy Shaw finally ventured to ask, "What kind o' game 
are you after, Port?" 

"Oh, just lookin' for yellow-legs and shore birds. 
I've got three young quawks* in the boat, and nobody 

*Tliis is the way we called this night heron, Nycticorax. The com- 
mon name is sometimes spelled "squawk," while some naturalists call it 
"the qua bird." If you take my spelling and add "quock" to it, and 
then divide the sum total by two, you will get very near to the bird's own 
pronunciation of its name ; and who should know better than he ? 




General MARTIN MILLER. 



GENERAL MARTIN MILLER. 121 

about here eats 'em but me; so I can't sell 'em, an' if 
you'll eat 'em I'll cook 'em." 

By unanimous consent it was voted "a go," or words 
to that effect. Billy Shaw, who had no fear of thunder 
now that it was not in his immediate front, said that we 
were down for fun and might as well have it. "If you 
are not hungry now," said he, "you will be by the time 
old Port gets these song birds dressed and cooked." 

John Atwood and I took Port's boat and put out his 
set lines for eels, in order to have fish for breakfast. 
These lines were of quarter-inch cord, reaching from 
bank to bank. At every two feet was a one-foot snood 
tied with a "bow-timber hitch," dropping only one foot 
below. This enabled the fisher to snatch a snood loose 
and drop it in the boat, eel or no eel; but the beauty of 
Tyler's rig was the eyed hooks with a knot above and 
one below, v/hich prevented an eel from unlaying the 
snood and breaking it strand by strand, merely turning 
the hook as if on a swivel. There is no patent on it. 

The quawks were roasted when we returned after 
putting out the eel lines in several places, and the fact 
that we had eaten one supper did not prevent us from 
eating of the strange birds, and they were not a bit fishy, 
as one would suppose, but were tender and good. Port 
had set up a wind break and heat reflector by the fire 
and hung the birds on strings, so that they kept twisting 
round. When we came to crawl into the hay for the 
night Billy Shaw seemed a bit nervous and inquired if 
there might be rats about, and that started stories of 
enormous rats that lived along the creek and in the 
barns, all for his benefit. The little owl would whinny 
not unlike a horse, and Billy was evidently uneasy until 
Miller ran a stick in a wiggling way into the hay and said 
something about snakes. Then Billy vowed that he would 



122 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

go home. The General owned up and persuaded him to 
lie down, and the next we knew the night had gone. 

We had eels enough for breakfast on the first line, 
and then Port took up the others and left us. We 
fished until near noon, when the fish took a rest, and we 
gathered at the barn, each with several strings of perch, 
bullheads and rock bass. John Atwood had a strange 
fish, one that none of the party had ever seen before. 
We learned that it was a black bass, a Western fish that 
had come into the Hudson by way of the Erie Canal, so 
Harleigh said, and he was the village authority on fish 
and fishing. Just why the bass have not become more 
plenty in the upper river is a problem. Down about 
Newburgh, where the water is often somewhat brackish, 
they seem to be more plentiful. A little more fishing in 
the afternoon, and we went home after sundown. The 
General declared it was a pleasant trip, but I never knew 
him to fish before or after this once. 

Back of Ruyter & Van Valkenburg's tannery there 
was a great heap of spent tanbark to tumble in, and 
Jimmy Brown and I practised somersaults there; the 
other boys merely jumped. This interested the General, 
and he would help us in a whirl with his strong arm, 
which landed us on our feet. This was a special help in 
the back flop. Poor Jimmy Brown! We used to play 
the banjo for each other's jigs on the sanded floor until 
he was burned up on the steamer Reindeer in the sum- 
mer of 1850. General Miller also taught us to wrestle 
in the "collar-and-elbow" and "square hold" styles, and 
always impressed his correction of a fault upon us by 
taking hold himself and making the faulty one put his 
foot or his weight in the wrong position and then quickly 
laid him on his back. There were many fair wrestlers 
then among the boys of Greenbush. 



GENERAL MARTIN MILLER. 123 

One winter, when the ice was exceptionally good, he 
proposed a skating party to Hudson, some twenty-eight 
miles down the river. We had an ice boat that some of 
the boys built, and this was to go along to pick up strag- 
glers and to return on. Cub Wilson sailed the boat. A 
Greenbush boy of those days had little reverence and less 
respect in his composition, and nicknames were com- 
mon. Wilson was then about twenty-five years old, fat 
and unwieldy, and had been called Cub from boyhood 
and didn't mind it. He may have had a given name, 
and no doubt his mother called him by it. The party 
consisted of John Atwood, John and Hiram Stranahan, 
Jerry Van Beuren, James Miles, Isaac Polhemus, John 
Phillips, General Miller and myself, the youngest in the 
party. We started in the morning about eight. A light 
south wind was in our faces, and coats and overcoats 
were soon piled on the ice boat. In places the ice was 
too rough to skate, and once we took ofif the skates and 
walked about half a mile. Phillips and the Stranahans 
were the best skaters, and took the lead and kept it, 
reaching Hudson some time ahead of us. Atwood, Van 
Beuren and I brought up the rear. We did the stretch 
in four and a half hours — some claimed less time — pretty 
well tired and with numb feet. We all wore high boots. 
The skates, with great turned-over prows ending in brass 
acorns, were guttered in the bottoms, and strapped so 
tightly over the foot that the blood could not circulate. 
We did not think skating possible under any other con- 
ditions. When the strap would not take up another 
hole we drove wooden wedges between the strap and the 
boot to make it tighter. A few years ago I tried on the 
old style of skate and could get around a little, but could 
do nothing with those of the present model. 

At Hudson General Miller took us to a hotel and we 



124: MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

had a good dinner. We had a strong wind from the 
west on the homestretch and the ice boat did not have to 
tack once, and we were not long on the way. Skipper 
Wilson remarked: "You boys beat me when I had to 
tack against a head wind, but you couldn't do it now." 
On telling the story the General said: "The boys are all 
good skaters, but you should see 'em eat! They cleaned 
up everything in that hotel, and if they ever go to Hud- 
son again that landlord will close his house when he sees 
'em coming." 

"Hans Breitman's gife a barty — 

Where ish dat barty now? 
Where ish de lofely golden cloud 

Dat float on de moundain's prow? 
Where ish de himmel strahlende stern — 

De shtar of de shpirit's light? 
All goned afay mit de lager beer — 

Afay in de ewigkeit!" 

This philosophical verse of Leland's comes up when 
that day is recalled, for all except the writer have passed 
into the ewigkeit of the Plattdeutsche, or evigkeit of the 
German. Five died peacefully. John Atwood was 
killed by a boiler explosion, Van Beuren was drowned 
in California, and Phillips was killed by interlocking his 
"turn-over" skate with that of another boy, and his skull 
was broken on the ice. Surely I may ask: Where is 
that party now? And ewigkeit, or eternity, as you 
choose, is the only answer. 

I learn from one of boyhood's companions who has 
not yet crossed the Styx that General Martin Miller was 
born on May 12, 1816; was Doorkeeper of the State 
Senate in 1845-46; was member of Assembly in 1858, 
and died in the summer of 1882. The General married 



GENERAL MARTIN MILLER. 125 

and died in the summer of 1882. The General married a 
sister of my friend, Garrett M. Van Olinda, who is now 
in business at 18 Harrison street, New York, and one 
son survives him. 

For a few days during the time of the Mexican war 
the sleepy little village of Greenbush was disturbed over 
a very small word and argument ran high. Abram 
Van Olinda, brother to the General's wife, had raised a 
company of volunteers for the war, and the citizens of 
Greenbush purchased a sword to be presented to the 
Captain ; but it must have an inscription of some kind to 
tell who presented it and also who it was presented to. 
A few had agreed that the blade should be inscribed: 
"Presented by the citizens of Greenbush to Captain 
Abram Van Olinda, and never to be sheathed but with 
honor." This was the sentiment of Volkert P. Douw, 
Squire Hogeboom and John L. Van Valkenburgh. 
Isaac Fryer moved to strike out the word "but" and in- 
sert "except," and Thomas Miles and others backed him. 
The inscription hung fire, and the women of the village 
took it up and hot arguments were held as to which of 
the two words was the best to use in the inscription. A 
meeting of all who had subscribed for the sword was 
called at Fryer's tavern, and after much argument from 
each side "Mat" Miller was asked to give his view of 
how the inscription should read. He rose and said: 
" 'Never to be sheathed but with honor' is good; we all 
know what it means. We also know what it means if 
we say, 'Never to be sheathed except with honor,' and it's 
only a choice of words, and 'but' is Dutch." That settled 
it. The Douws, Van Valkenburghs and Hogebooms 
were defeated by this thrust. Captain Van Olinda was 
killed while leading his men at the charge on the heights 
of Chapultepec, on September 13, 1847. The result of 



1S6 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

which was sent home, and is still in the possession of his 
family. 

Mat Miller — I love to think of him as "Mat" — was a 
warm friend to boys. Perhaps he liked some boys bet- 
ter than others, but he was always my friend, and he was 
the manly sort of man that I could look up to with con- 
fidence. He was a man when I was a boy. When I 
was fourteen he was thirty-one, but he was always one of 
us on such frolics as have been related, and never seemed 
to know of that gulf which separates the fun-loving boy 
from the money-grubbing man which some men de- 
velop into. 

General "Mat" Miller! You covered yourself all 
over with glory when you attacked a desperate burglar, 
who outclassed you in weight, alone and single-handed 
in the old "spook-house" barn and brought him to jus- 
tice. May you be crowned with glory now, as the re- 
ward of an honest life, is the prayer of your boyish 
friend. 



GARRETT VAN HOESEN. 

SPEARING EELS AND TRAPPING RABBITS. 

THE village boys called him Garry Van Hooser, 
and I am not sure but the whole family pro- 
nounced it in that way; but Garry could write, 
and he spelled the name as it is given above. He had 
been a clerk in the grocery of Thomas B. Simmonds 
since my earliest memory, and had none of the Dutch 
accent common to his people, for at this late day the 
descendants of the original settlers of the Upper Hudson 
often spoke Dutch, and their English had an accent 
which Garry had lost by frequent contact with other 
people. He was older than I by some six to ten years, 
and was a shy young man, who never seemed to have 
any companions, and often went fishing and shooting 
alone or with his spaniel Coody, which was a good re- 
triever. He told me where he got the dog, but where its 
name came from even he did not know. He said: "Oh, 
I do' know; he had to have a name, and I just called him 
Coody." 

That settled the matter to the satisfaction of Garry, 
the dog seemed to be pleased with the name, and who 
could object? 

One day in '48, after the election of General Taylor 
as President, when the ice was just thick enough for 
skating, I had been told to stop at the grocery for some- 
thing when I came home to supper, and Garry said: "I 
am going up to the mill pond in the morning to spear 
eels. How would you like to go with me?" 

"First-rate; what must I take along?" 

127 



128 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

"Nothing but a pair of woolen mittens; your hands 
will freeze without them. I'll put up all the grub we 
want. Meet me here about nine in the morning and 
we'll start." 

During the night about two inches of snow fell. The 
morning was still and clear, and the snow was soft and 
dry. Garry carried the basket and axe, while I 
shouldered the long spear up past schoolhouse and along 
the railroad, which then came down to the lower ferry, 
to the mill pond away up by the red mill. The snow 
was blinding as we faced the morning sun, and it also 
reflected every sound. The far-off crows seemed close 
at hand, a little sapsucker pecking on a tree made a great 
rapping, and we could hear what the men were saying 
down at the mill. "Why is it so still after a fall of 
snow?" I asked. 

It's always that way after a snowstorm," he answered, 
and I went along not entirely satisfied with his laconic 
answer, but accepted his statement of fact. Some philos- 
ophers give us equally lucid explanations and take a 
whole volume to do it in. 

"A week from now the ice will be too thick to spear 
eels," he said, "and it would take half an hour to cut a 
hole. It's just right now, nearly four inches, and no one 
has been spearing here this year. Down yonder, in the 
bend, is where they bed ; the water is deep there." 

All eels bed in the mud in cold weather, and an eel 
spear for soft bottom has a stout central tine barbed on 
both sides; then come flexible tines, about five on each 
side, with barbs on the inside only. The tines are nearly 
a foot in length, and radiate from the pole-stock in a 
fiat plane, which is some lo inches wide at the lower end. 
Rigged with a light pole, twenty feet or more long, the 
mud is sounded in a regular manner in a circle of per- 



GARRETT VAN HOESEN. 129 

haps thirty feet in diameter. When an eel is struck the 
spear does not pierce it, but holds it by the spring of the 
tines, which open and clasp it. It was soon apparent 
why woolen mittens were an essential part of the outfit. 
As they became wet they were warm, even with ice on 
the outside of them, just as a boy's foot will be warm 
after the first chill when his boot is full of ice water if 
his stocking is of wool. But continual freezing to an 
icy spear handle is hard on a mitten. 

I watched Garry begin sounding under the hole and 
then increase the circle until the spear handle was at an 
acute angle with the ice, throwing the spear strongly into 
the mud and then withdrawing it. He brought up 
sticks, brush and an occasional eel, which soon stiffened 
on the snow. "How can you tell whether it's an eel or a 
stick?" 

"That's easy enough; try it." 

He chopped me a new hole and I made a thrust. 
"Harder," said he; "shove it hard or the barbs won't 
snap on 'em," and I sent the spear into the mud. An 
eel? No, a stick! After landing several sticks some- 
thing was struck that wiggled and sent little thrilling 
pulsations up the staff, and then I knew all that is to be 
known about spearing eels through the ice. It is not a 
high class sport, but it gives a boy an excuse for an out- 
ing in winter and is a healthful exercise. This thing of 
exercise is better understood to-day than when I was 
a boy, and men who go out with rod and gun are not 
thought to be idle, good-for-nothing fellows, as they 
were thought to be half a century ago. Not that I was 
not an "idle, good-for-nothing fellow," who preferred a 
day's shooting or fishing to a week's confinement in 
school, but I am speaking in a general way, excepting 
"present company." 



130 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

About noon Garry flung the spear in the snow and 
said: "I'm hungry; what do you say?" 

Now that the matter was mentioned, there did seem 
to be something lacking, and without giving it that pro- 
found consideration which Garry gave to questions, I 
answered him in his own simple style: "So'm I." All 
the morning I had been as silent as he; in fact, when a 
fellow gets shut up with such short answers as are here 
recorded there is nothing for him to do but to shut up. 
But how I did want to talk about the habits of eels, what 
they found to eat in the mud and other things. Away 
up the pond, a quarter of a mile away, a man was chop- 
ping wood. The sound of his stroke did not reach us 
until his axe was raised again. I asked father about this 
when I got home, but I did not intrude the question on 
Garry. He did not then encourage talk. 

We went ashore by a spring and made a fire. Garry 
opened the basket and brought out bread, butter and 
sausages. Just how he could cook the last was a mys- 
tery, and they could not be eaten raw. Bolognas were 
unknown then, as this was before the German invasion 
and the era of limburger, schweizerkase, bolognas, 
pretzels and lager beer. I gathered dry fire wood and 
watched. He dragged two longs limbs and rested one 
end of each upon a low stump. This was table and 
chairs. Then he took birch twigs and ran them length- 
wise through the sausages and stuck them up before the 
fire. The ground being frozen, he held them nearly 
erect by pieces of wood, and there they fried in their 
own fat, the birch twigs imparting no bad flavor. A tin 
cup of water from the spring served for both, and if a 
hungry boy astride a branch of a tree with a big birch 
chip for a plate did not do full justice to his appetite then 
he never did. 



GARRETT VAN HOESEN. 131 

Many a dinner did I eat after that one, but this was 
so exceptionally good that it stands out in bold relief. 
During weary months in military prisons the odor of 
those sausages came in hungry dreams. The white 
bread from Jonas Whiting's bakery and the butter from 
Dennison's farm were often remembered in days when 
such remembrance was more substantial than anything 
in sight. 

That dinner is memorable for another thing. It 
opened up a human mind. John Atwood had said: 
"Garry Van Hooser never talks because he doesn't know 
anything to talk about. He just knows enough to weigh 
a pound of tea and say, 'Yes'm, fifty cents.' " When I 
told John a little of this trip he was incredulous. The 
eels were in evidence, however; he couldn't deny them. 

After we had destroyed the dinner and Garry had 
lighted his pipe, he remarked between puffs: "When 
spring comes we will go down in the dead creek and 
shoot ducks. I often go there alone, but have felt that 
I wanted some one to be with me, some one to talk to 
at times. I went down there once with John Atwood, 
but he talked all the time and scared the ducks away. 
Now you don't break in when a man is thinking, and 
we've had a good time. I don't know what you were 
thinking about when we were spearing, but I thought 
that if it is true that this world is round and turns over 
every day, how is it that the water does not spill out of 
the holes we cut in the ice, and why the weight of the 
trees does not pull 'em out of the ground when they're 
upside down. I don't say that I don't believe it, but I 
can't understand it; and men that know more than I 
seem to believe it, but they can't tell just how it is. I 
never had much schooling, and this thing has bothered 
me for years. It keeps me awake nights and bothers me 



132 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

daytimes. If I ask about it they make fun of me. Now 
you've had a good education and I want to know what 
you think about this thing, and if you don't know how it is 
don't tell that I asked about it; for there's a lot o' fools 
that don't know the first thing about this business, and 
don't care, that are always ready to make fun of a fellow 
who does want to know." 

This was the longest speech that I had ever heard 
Garry make up to that time. I explained the rotation of 
the earth as well as I understood it, and afterward gave 
him what literature bearing on the subject I could find, 
and his reserve was thrown ofif. He was a different man 
to me, and I soon liked his simple, honest ways, his stu- 
dious mode of looking into things and his philosophical 
conclusions. Every man's mind is a study, a curiosity, 
if you will, if you have time and inclination to look into 
it. It is curious because it differs from yours. 

After his long speech, delivered between puffs on his 
pipe, and my explanations, there was a period of silence. 
Then he asked: "Did you ever trap any rabbits?" 

"No; I've shot a few, but never trapped any. Why?" 

"What time do your folks have breakfast?" 

Without seeing any intimate connection between the 

trapping of rabbits and the hour when our family broke 

their fast, I replied: 'Tn summer at seven and in winter 

at eight. What's that got to do with catching rabbits?" 

'T was thinking that you'd have time to tend the traps 

if you could get up about six o'clock. Then you'd be 

back in time to get breakfast and go to school. There's 

lots o' rabbits up in the woods back o' the rye field, and 

I've got six box traps in the old barn there. If you'll 

see to 'em every morning we'll go over there now 

and set the traps before we go home. What d' you 

say?" 



GARRETT VAN HOES EN. 133 

"Tell me all about it, and I'll do it. It must be heaps 
o' fun. Come on." 

We crossed over to the rye field — a field as well 
known to every boy as the ball ground, where no one 
drove us off, but which had been a pasture since my 
recollection — and carried the traps into the woods. 
Garry had got some sweet apples, and we set a trap here 
and there where rabbit signs were thickest. 

"When you come to a trap in the morning," said he, 
"if it is still set you want to see that the bait is there and 
the cord or the spindle is not frozen so that it can't work. 
If it has been sprung you want to go slow and find out 
what's in it. If it's a skunk he'll let you know when you 
touch it with your boot, and then you want to tie a long 
string to the cover and let him walk out. If it's a rabbit, 
put in your hand and take it out." 

"Won't it bite?" 

"No, they never bite. The best way to kill them is 
to hold their hindlegs in your left hand, and hit 'em with 
a stick in the back of the neck." 

"I don't believe I could do it. I can shoot one, but I 
know I could never do that." 

"Yes, you could; it's easy enough. But if you are 
afraid to do it that way, take a bag, put the mouth of it 
over the trap, dump them into it, and bring them down to 
me." 

That seemed the best way. I was not afraid to kill 
a rabbit by shooting it — Garry did not understand me — 
but the bag scheme let me out and it was settled in that 
way. We went back to the mill pond, gathered our 
basket of eels and went home. I promised to let Garry 
know how many rabbits I had and to let him do the 
killing. 

Next morning I was up very early. There had been 



134: MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

a light, drizzling rain during the night, and now there 
was a hard crust on the snow which crunched under foot 
and made a great noise. The first trap was approached 
with a quickening pulse, and my heart was beating high 
as it was neared. Alas! it was unsprung and the cord 
was frozen fast. The crust did not tell if the trap had 
been visited, but the apple was untouched. All the traps 
were in the same condition, but I fixed them so that they 
would spring, and on the way home reported the facts to 
Garry. 

"You needn't have gone to them this morning," said 
he, "for you might have known that a rabbit would not 
go out and get all covered with ice in a rain like that one 
last night." 

I might have known, but with a head filled with the 
excitement of a first visit to rabbit traps, with the ex- 
pectation that at least one rabbit might be found in each, 
I never thought that they might prefer dry hides to my 
traps. 

The next night was clear and crisp, and, oh, how cold 
that morning was! The stars seemed to echo my tread 
on the crackling crust as I trudged along. The first 
trap was unsprung, and my faith in taking rabbits in box 
traps was shaken. Old tracks, made before the crust 
was formed, were abundant, and there was "sign" on the 
crust where no tracks could be seen. Surely there were 
rabbits there, if they could only be caught. These were 
the thoughts when the second trap was sighted. It was 
sprung! The rapid puffing of an early freight train on 
the railroad below did not exceed the beating of my 
heart. Cold as it was, a perspiration broke out all over 
me. Pshaw! Perhaps the string had broken or the 
trigger had slipped from the notch! 

I stood for a moment like one in a dream. Could it 



GARRETT VAN HOES EN. 135 

be that the trap actually held a rabbit? I went up to it 
and kicked it lightly with my boot. There was no indi- 
cation of an "essence peddler" in the air and I peeped in. 
There was the game crouched in the far end, I let the 
trap down, and for a few moments enjoyed my triumph. 
I was a mighty trapper! Me! 

This was long before the deer episode, and a rabbit 
was the largest game that I aspired to. Heart never 
beat faster over a first grizzly or bighorn than mine did 
then. As I have said, I had shot an occasional rabbit; 
but this early morning tramp over crusted snow seemed 
somehow to make the event seem like the life of a real 
woodsman. A great part of Greenbush was asleep, and 
here was I in the forest with its largest game in my 
power! 

I carefully adjusted the bag over the trap and then 
opened it. There was a thud in the bottom of the bag, 
and then a glimpse of something gray and a sound of 
"zip, zip," and if that was really a rabbit it was gone. 
The unexpected had happened. That was all I knew, 
and there was a period of depression such as always fol- 
lows intoxication. After pulling my scattered senses to- 
gether, I reset the trap and went on. The third trap, 
held a rabbit, and with the last failure in mind great care 
was exercised in arranging the bag. No mistake this 
time ! I knew how to hold him. I knew how, but some- 
how the same thing happened again. The second time 
the unexpected occurred, and some old philosopher has 
said that this is the only thing that ever does occur. I 
was despondent and demoralized, especially when the 
next two traps were found empty. As the sixth and last 
trap was sighted, the fact that it was sprung started no 
heart pumping. I was cooler now that I had seen just 
where the last rabbit got out. The bag had been tight 



136 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

around the trap until the trap was opened; the top and 
front end were nailed together, and the bag left a hole on 
each side when the trap was opened. Twice was enough. 
The mistake should not occur again. Remembering 
what Garry had said about a rabbit not biting, I put in a 
hand and brought the trembling animal out in some way, 
either by the ears or the hindlegs ; memory fails to recall 
how, but it does bring back the pitiful cries that rang 
through the woods. This troubled me, but I hardened 
my heart and dropped the game in the bag, and started 
for home with my prize, in triumph not unmixed with 
other feelings. 

With bag on shoulder I stopped at the foot of the hill 
to drink the strong sulphur water of Harrowgate Spring, 
of which Colonel Raymond and I were so fond in boy- 
hood. Here the events of the morning were reviewed in 
cold blood. Hardly two hours had passed, but the 
crowded events made it seem ten times as long. The 
little creature was still now, probably wondering what 
would come next. After pondering for a while on the 
escape of the two rabbits and taking another swig of 
Harrowgate, the recollection of those pitiful cries came 
up in full force. Then I seemed to realize that they 
came from a poor, terrified and harmless thing that I was 
taking to be killed without the excitement of the hunt. 
I peeped into the bag. Two large eyes and a trembling 
form were in the corner. Somehow the grip on the 
mouth of the bag was loosened, the bottom was turned 
up and a white lump of cotton in a field of gray went 
bobbing ofif into the brush. 

When I entered Tom Simmonds' store I said to 
Garry: "Here's your bag; I haven't got any rabbits and 
don't want any. I'll go up and spring the traps after 
school; it's time for breakfast now." 



GARRETT VAN HOESEN. 137 

It was months afterward before I told him the whole 
story, and he said: "Well, I don't know as I'd like to kill 
a rabbit if it cried like that. The fact is I built the traps 
some two years ago, and after some such scrape as yours 
I left them in the barn. Some boys like to trap rabbits, 
but I don't care anything about it; I only thought you 
might like it." 

I am not so chicken-hearted as this story makes me 
out. I have been a trapper for fur; will tell you about 
this later, and I never had the slightest feeling of pity for 
a bloodthirsty mink, marten or other animal of that class. 
I have killed them in steel traps, found them frozen to 
death in them, and have seen where they left a leg be- 
hind, and never felt more pity for these merciless brutes 
than I do for an oyster when I eat it alive. Somehow 
the very helplessness of a rabbit appeals to a fellow, and 
its plaintive cries — I give it up! I let that rabbit go 
that morning by the waters of Harrowgate, and that is 
all there is of it. I have tried to make a story of it and 
failed. 

Once or twice after the eel spearing scrape Garry 
asked me to fish with him, and the other boys wondered 
at it. Some years later we shot ducks, yellow-legs and 
rail along the dead creek, an inlet on the island below 
Douw's Point, and above the hilly dwelling of "der Yaw- 
cum Stawts wot lives on de Hokleberic."* 

This creek is now filled up, and is known no more 
except as a low, marshy spot. We had a good day once; 
two mallards, a wood duck and some half a dozen rail. 
A very good day it was, for ducks were wild and not 

*This is a phonetic spelling, as the Albany Dutch spoke it -when they 
referred to Joachim Staats, who lived on the Hogleberg, or "hog's back," 
the only hill on the island, just back of the landing known as Staats' 
dock. 



138 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

plenty, when Garry crawled up to a flock and got three. 
Coody retrieved them, but unfortunately they proved to 
be tame ducks, and the owner came down on Garry. I 
was below and kept still, hoping for a shot if anything 
came my way. After waiting a while a mud hen got up 
below me, flying low, and I shot. I missed the mud hen, 
but hit Garry in the back of the leg, and he promptly 
yelled. He had paid the man for his ducks and then 
went around back of me, hidden by the brush, and was 
just in time to intercept a few shot that the mud hen 
failed to get because of its haste. The shots, some half 
a dozen, were only under the skin in the calf of his leg, 
and I had no trouble in taking them out with a pocket 
knife. 

Said Garry: "It's lucky that I was below the bird, or 
your lead would have gone in deeper." 

"What were you doing down below me and how did 
you get there? I didn't see you. I thought you were 
up above squaring it with the man for his tame ducks. I 
suppose he wanted twice what they were worth." 

"No," said Garry, "he won't charge much; he trades 
with us, and will bring me the ducks and settle to-mor- 
row. I wouldn't like to take up a lot of tame ducks; 
the boys would laugh. Now, see here! If you promise 
never to tell that I shot into a flock of tame ducks I'll 
give you my word that I won't say a word about your 
shooting me in the leg. Is it a go?" 

"It's a go!" Garry is dead and it's a long time ago. 
As both stories are told now for the first time, I don't see 
that any harm is done to him. Neither of us meant to 
do it, and after all the intention, in a shooting case, is 
always carefully considered by a jury. 

Garry was short and stout, wore his face without hair, 
and his teeth were stained by tobacco. I should think 



GARRETT VAN HOESEN. 139 

he might have been born about 1825, but while I knew 
of his death and attended his funeral, I have pressed 
every button in memory for an approximate date, but the 
wires seem to be crossed. Mr. Garrett M. Van Olinda 
thinks he died in 1861, and that seems likely. 

I only know that he married about three weeks before 
he died. It was like this: I was in Greenbush one day 
and he invited me into the back room. 

"I want your advice," said he, "and I ask it because I 
am only a raw countryman and you have more knowl- 
edge of the world than I have." 

This almost took my breath. If he was contem- 
plating the opening of a grocery in opposition to Tom 
Simmonds and Mat Miller it was useless to consult one 
like me, whose only object in life so far had been to get 
what fun he could out of it, and whose knowledge of 
business was nil. Of course I did not formulate all this 
then — I was merely surprised and asked: "What's up, 
Garry?" ' 

He thought a moment and then said: "I am thinking 
about getting married, and am in doubt whether it is the 
best thing to do or not. What do you think?" 

If memory reflects my mind at that time, I did not 
think. Here was a man who was shy of men and boys, 
one whose business compelled him to talk to women and 
girls, but whose shyness cut the conversation to the 
strictest business limits. I was astounded. Pulling my 
scattered wits together, I said: "Why, Garry, I never 
heard of your keeping company with a girl; who is she?" 

He told me, but it was no one that I had ever heard 
of. Said he: "She is the nicest girl I ever saw, and she 
comes to the store every day and I can talk to her by the 
hour. She is not a bit like the other girls that come in. 
I wish you could see her." 



140 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

That settled the marriage question. Of course, I 
had nothing to say, and he didn't expect I would have, 
but he was compelled to confide his secret to a human 
being of some kind, and the one before him served his 
purpose. 

In after years whenever a box trap was stumbled on 
in the woods it brought up the picture of Garry Van 
Hoesen, the shy, sensitive fellow who longed for human 
sympathy, but from a lack of aggressiveness or an ex- 
cess of diffidence, self-consciousness or whatever you 
please to call it, seemed lonesome in this great bustling 
world. If I'd brought him that rabbit he would not 
have killed it. 

In after years I fished with men of all conditions in 
life, men of high character and men of no character 
worth mentioning, men of education and intelligence 
and those who had neither, but among them all I have a 
warm spot in my memory for simple, honest Garry Van 
Hoesen. 



STEPHEN MARTIN. 

TRAP AND RIFLE SHOOTING THE WAR CLOUD. 

STEVE was a different sort of fellow from any of the 
boys of whom I have written. He came into our 
boyish set after we went across the river to live, 
and I naturally dropped into Scott's occasionally by day, 
but frequently in the evenings. W. J. & R. H. Scott 
made, sold and repaired guns on Beaver street, between 
Broadway and Green street, and after their rival — poor 
Steve Van Valkenburgh — died, theirs was the only place 
of the kind in Albany. Gunners of all kinds had busi- 
ness there, and every evening a few could be found in 
the salesroom discussing all kinds of questions pertain- 
ing to guns, their proper loads and powers, as well as tell- 
ing their personal experiences while trying to conceal 
the exact location of a bit of snipe bog or partridge 
cover. 

We boys soon got acquainted — it never takes boys 
long to do that, especially if they have a common interest 
in anything. Martin was one that dropped in there, and 
as he was about the age of our party he went with us 
on a fishing trip to Normanskill, a brook which rises 
somewhere off toward the Helderbergs and enters the 
Hudson a few miles below Albany. We called it the 
Normanskill Creek in ignorance that "kill" was Dutch 
for creek, and that the added word was a repetition, but 
then what would you do with Kaaterskill, anglicized into 

141 



142 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

Catskill as the name of a village, a range of mountains 
and a stream? And then the word creek is used in New 
York for a bayou or arm of a river which forms an island, 
like the Popscheny, and also for a brook or even rivers 
like the East and West Canadas, which form the great 
Mohawk. All this has nothing whatever to do with 
Steve Martin, the subject now under the scalpel and 
microscope. A cog slipped and some ink went astray — 
only this and nothing more. 

The day was quite young when we reached the 
stream near its mouth and some distance below the first 
dam. George Scott was going to try a new bait, and 
had brought a lot of fresh-water mussels — Unio — "for," 
said he, "if these things aren't good for bait, what good 
are they? What do they have shells on 'em for if it is 
not to keep the fish from eating 'em?" 

"Lemme smell 'em," said Steve, and he took a snif? 
and with a look of disgust said: "George, a fish couldn't 
eat that thing; you can't eat it, and it's my opinion that 
nothing will eat it. What do you think of it, Fred?" 

"I dunno; the only way to find out is to try 'em. Old 
John Chase has used 'em for bait in his eel pots, and he 
wouldn't fool his time with the things if they are no 
good. I've seen him pick up a peck on the flats at low 
tide. Hogs eat them, and Port Tyler said that some 
kinds of wild ducks eat the little ones. I don't see why 
they shouldn't be as good as clams or oysters; they live 
like them." 

"Oysters!" yelled Steve, "I'll bet you daren't taste 
of one. Nobody eats them, and I believe they're 
poison."" 

"I'll eat one if you will." 

"That's fair," said George Scott. 

Pete Loeser remarked: "I dink Stefe he vas scart to 



STEPHEN MARTIN. 143 

eat von of dose muschels, he don'd got some pepper- 
sauce. Oh, Stefe, you vas scart und you pack oud!" 

The question had assumed a personal form, and Steve 
was getting warm. The reflection on his courage braced 
him up, and after giving Pete a look which might have 
meant that he would like to cut him up for fish bait, he 
asked, "Where is the pepper and salt?" These things 
put before him, he selected a mussel of medium size, 
groped about until he found one to match it in size and 
shape, and with one in each hand he offered me the 
choice in the courtly manner that duellists are reported 
to do upon the field of honor. My careless challenge 
might have been passed by if only Martin and I had been 
present, but the comment of Loeser settled it. A contest 
was unavoidable. A choice was made, and each opened 
his mollusk, salted and peppered it with deliberation. 
Then, eye to eye, we raised the shells and took in the 
contents. 

Charley Scott, brother to George and the firm of gun- 
smiths, watched the faces of the contestants closely, and 
after the last morsel was swallowed by each said: "Well, 
if mussels ain't good to eat, you fellows lie. I've been 
a-waitin' to see one of you weaken on 'em, but you only 
looked at each other as if you were chewin' oysters." 

The truth is that we afterward acknowledged to each 
other that fresh-water mussels might be good for fish 
bait, but we had no very great desire to eat any more. 
There is a remembrance of a combination of toughness, 
sweetness and sliminess which did not provoke an appe- 
tite for more. We put on a bold front and challenged 
the other boys to try them. Martin even went so far as 
to say that they were as good as oysters. This state- 
ment was received with some doubt, and Charley Scott 
suggested that if Steve thought so he could save money 



144 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

by using them in place of the salt-water product. George 
offered to eat one if we would each eat another, but the 
German was mean enough to ask: "Oof Stefe dinks dose 
dings was so goot we oysders, vy don'd he ede 'em some 
more?" A yell turned the conversation; George had 
thrown his line back in the wrong direction, and the hook 
took Loeser in the ear, and tore a hole big enough to let 
it be taken out easily. Years afterward, at a dinner of 
the Ichthyophagous Club, we had a bisque or some other 
preparation of Unios fixed up by the chef of one of New 
York's crack hotels, and I tasted it, with a thought run- 
ning back to an early day on the Normanskill. After 
tasting it I looked around to see how the rest enjoyed 
it. Frank Endicott made a show of taking frequent 
spoonfuls, but his plate seemed as full as ever. Mr. E. 
G. Blackford tasted it and said: "That is very fine," but 
somehow let it go at that; and when the waiter removed 
his plate you could not miss what had been eaten. No 
doubt the mussels are good, but you've got to learn to 
like 'em. I never persevered in this direction. As bait 
that day they took a few fish, but the verdict of the boys 
was that they preferred the old reliable angle worm. 

Down in the lower end of Albany is a portion called 
Bethlehem, and on the river road was the Abbey, a noted 
road-house a couple of miles below the city. An Eng- 
lish sportsman named Kenneth King lived in Bethlehem, 
and the Abbey was kept by another English shooting 
man named Sheldrick, who got up pigeon shoots, and 
we boys used to attend them. At these affairs we used 
to make matches to shoot at ten birds each, the loser to 
pay for and the winner to have them. One day after 
the shooting was done Martin said to me: "We are not 
going to shoot any more because there are not enough 
pigeons for a match, but as your gun is loaded and there 




STEPHEN MARTIN. 



STEPHEN MARTIN. 145 

are a few pigeons left, I'll shoot you a match of two each. 
We want to shoot off our guns, any way. What d'ye 
say?" 

I had left my gun standing in the corner while I had 
gone on the front porch for something, and had just re- 
turned when Steve made this proposal. "All right," said , 
I, "we might as well shoot at a couple more and empty 
our guns before going home." He picked up his gun, 
and as I reached for mine Ken King quickly passed me 
his and with a wink said: "Take mine." 

Without thought I went to the score after Steve had 
killed one of his birds and missed the other, and killed 
both of mine. The boys laughed, and Steve looked sur- 
prised as I hastily walked back and put up King's 
gun. While they were talking things over outside King 
asked me: "Do you know why I gave you my gun to 
shoot?" 

"No, but you gave me a wink and I asked no ques- 
tions. Why did you do it?" 

"When you went out on the front porch Steve drew 
the wads and took the shot out of both barrels of your 
gun. See the joke? They're talking about it now." 

I went out and took my three birds; Steve paid for 
four and merely remarked: "Well, you beat me this 
time; we'll have to try it over again next Saturday." 

As we got ready to start I stepped back and shot ofif 
both barrels, and Steve asked: "What gun did you kill 
the pigeons with? I thought it was your own." 

"No, I used Ken King's to see how it shoots, as we 
may want to trade. It shot very well; couldn't have 
done better. When I shot ofif my gun just now it made 
a light report; perhaps I forgot to put shot in it." 

Steve made no reply, but Pete Loeser said: "I kess, 
Stefe, he dinks dere vas no shot dere; hey, Stefe?" 



146 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

The laugh was on Stephen, and the boys guyed him 
so that he had to own up, but after that event we each 
kept our guns in sight at pigeon matches. 

It was after this that I bought the pointer Nell from 
Ken King, the one referred to in former sketches, and 
King showed us the woodcock grounds on the Albany 
side of the river, and we shot with him over his dogs and 
Nell. Sometimes when he was not with us we consulted 
Mrs. Sheldrick, who was well posted on these matters, 
and far more communicative than her husband. In her 
vocabulary "birds" meant woodcock only; all others 
were spoken of by name. For instance, she would say: 
"Well, boys, you won't find many birds in the swamps 
this morning; you might get an odd one up in the corn- 
field after the rain last night, but you can find plenty o' 
pigeons in yon wood, an' mebbe some plover on the hill 
or a few yellow-legs along shore. But birds '11 be scarce 
to-day." 

Steve was wonderfully good on woodcock, and usual- 
ly beat us all in bringing down that bird of erratic flight. 
He used a short gun of twelve-gauge. Just how short 
the barrels were is more than I would like to say now — 
perhaps twenty inches — while my gun was an extra long 
one of twelve inches more. I once saw him drop five 
"birds" in succession in a swampy thicket where this 
swift, dazzling bird would drop out of sight within 
twenty yards, and this was not an exceptional case. 
Those who have shot this quick, zigzagging bird in close 
thickets are the only ones who know just how quick and 
unruffled a shooter has to be to get a fair proportion of 
the birds he flushes. They had all learned from Ken 
King the lesson which I had been taught by Port Tyler 
in former years, to use small shot in small quantity, with 
a very light charge of powder, for this kind of shooting 



STEPHEN MARTIN. 147 

at close quarters, in order not to mutilate this royal game 
bird. 

Steve went with us on several fishing trips, but never 
in the open season for game; fishing amused him when 
there was nothing else to do ; it was fun, but hardly sport 
to him. He cared little for camping out, or for the fields 
and streams outside of the fact that game abounded in 
one and fish in the other; hence I said at the beginning 
of this article that he differed from any of those of whom 
I have written. He was impatient of any delay, and 
eager to be stirring; hence some of the ingredients of a 
good fisherman had been left out of his mental make-up. 

In the early '50's there was an epidemic of rifle shoot- 
ing in the State of New York. Not shooting at game — 
that is one of our steady and never-decreasing infirmities; 
but this prevalent disorder took the form of long-dis- 
tance target shooting. Heavy rifles were shot on bench 
rests at six hundred yards, mainly in winter on the ice 
below the city. They had "patent muzzles," a detached 
piece with pins to set over the true muzzle while seating 
the bullet in order to leave the muzzle perfectly square, 
the enlargement necessary to start the bullet in the way 
it should go being entirely in the false muzzle. These 
guns were all hand-made. If there were machine-made 
rifles in those days I never heard of them. All rifles were 
hand-made. Soldiers did not use them; their muskets 
were smooth-bores, and it was believed that rifling was a 
principle that would work well up to a certain calibre, 
but was only practicable for guns which were shot from 
the shoulder. For field pieces which threw a six-pound 
shot it was believed to be useless, because it was thought 
that the weight of the projectile would prevent it from 
following the twisted groove. To-day they rifle not 
only the largest cannon, but even mortars. In the '6o's 



148 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

I handled rifled guns up to those known as one hundred- 
pound "Parrots," but now such a gun is only a toy, and 
our ten-inch seacoast mortars with their smooth bores 
are obsolete. This digression is not for the benefit of 
the old fellows who know all this, but is intended for the 
boys of to-day who have the cartridges for their breech- 
loading shotguns filled for them before they go afield, 
and whose machine-made magazine rifles are wonderful 
pieces of mechanism. Remember, boys, in my shooting 
days we went afield with powder flask on one shoulder, 
shot pouch on the other, cap box and either cut wads or 
newspapers for wadding in the pockets. If we shot the 
rifle we moulded our own bullets, measured our powder 
and carried greased linen patches to envelop the bullet, 
a ramrod and box of caps. Such a thing as buying pre- 
pared ammunition was not dreamed of. 

There was a little squad of rifle shooters from both 
sides of the river which met in contests on the ice. There 
was Billy Wish, the ferryboat engineer; William Tall- 
man, Sr., a machinist; Steve Martin, and John Clark, a 
printer, who, in spite of having but little color in his eyes, 
was the best shot of all. It has been said that gray-eyed 
men make the best rifle shots, but Clark's eyes were 
lighter than gray. 

The shooting was counted by string measure, and 
the targets were displayed nightly at Scott's. Such dis- 
cussions over the wind in explanation of a bad shot, and 
such arguments over the merits of rifle makers, would 
fill volumes of Forest and Stream. The merits of Lewis 
and James as makers of rifles was the main point. One 
lived in Troy and the other in Syracuse, and they were 
always going to shoot a match with rifles of their own 
makes, but like some gladiators of to-day it ended in talk. 
Billinghurst, of Rochester, was another famous maker; 



STEPHEN MARTIN. 149 

I remember him because he made the first open reel for 
fishermen, Scott made a rifle for Martin^ and he in- 
duced me to join the shooting and use his gun. There 
was no betting, just pure sport, and I tried it. The rifle 
was sighted long and deliberately, then a rest of the eye 
and it was gone over again until the shooter had it as fine 
as he knew how. Then the flags were watched, with 
the eyes oflf the rifle, until the long strings of muslin 
hanging from the poles placed at intervals showed the 
wind to be right, and the hair trigger was touched. 

I never made much of a shooter of this kind ; my eyes 
blurred at one hundred yards then and they do at twenty 
feet to-day, although I read and write without glasses at 
sixty-three. Black-eyed Steve Martin was a fair shot, 
but that did not satisfy him; he always had an excuse for 
not being first — the powder was not as good, the patch 
was too thick or too thin, a pufif of wind came just as he 
pulled the trigger, etc. 

Pete Loeser once said: "Stefe he shoot pooty goot, 
but never so besser as he can; dere vas alvays sometings 
dot spile his string. Oof dot clout had not come der sun 
between ven he make der sixt shot he peat Shon Glark 
all hollow. I dink he makes besser string in te efening 
by Scott's stofe, by shimminy!" 

To this George Scott replied: "Pete, if you could 
make half as good a score as Steve you might be proud. 
There are his targets, look at 'em; they show a splendid 
average, and one hard to beat. It's not a good one for 
two or three days and then a durned bad one, but a 
steady, good lot of shooting day by day." 

"Dot's all ride," said Pete; "but he alvays got some 
excuse for de one shot wot makes de oder nine figger 
oop big on de averich." 

Just then Steve came in and George said : "Steve, you 



150 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

are just in time. Pete says you can't hit a pancake if it's 
tied over the muzzle of your gun." 

"That may be so, but I'll tell you what I'll do, Pete. 
If you'll stand one thousand yards down on the ice and 
let me shoot a pipe out of your mouth, I'll buy you a 
new hat if I don't break the pipe." 

Another way in which Steve Martin differed from my 
other fishing companions was that he was a practical 
joker. Now, fun is one thing and "practical joking" is 
another. In the mind of the p. j. they are the same thing, 
but no other human being agrees with him because the 
fun is all on his side, and the misery of others is his joy. 
Therefore he is a selfish mortal and that settles him. We 
were once rowing round Douw's Point against a stiff 
current, just all that two pairs of oars could do to make 
a bit of way at the extreme point. The scow had a 
plugged hole in the bottom to let out water without tip- 
ping her over when beached. As we were near the 
shore Steve said: "I guess I'll lighten the boat," and 
jumped ashore, taking the plug with him. The water 
was up and wet our feet before we noticed it, and we 
were only saved from a ducking by promptly beaching 
the little scow. The author of the mischief was up the 
bank and off. A new plug was whittled out and we 
went our way scolding, not so much at what had hap- 
pened as at what might have occurred. 

Of course he was forgiven, although he never asked 
to be, but for a time he was made to feel that his fun 
was not appreciated by the boys that were in the boat. 
We often shot together over Nell at woodcock, snipe, 
golden plover and shore birds. He sometimes took her 
out alone, and when I learned that he was trying to make 
her retrieve I protested. Steve insisted that a pointer 
could be taught to retrieve as well as a setter, and in- 



STEPHEN MARTIN. 151 

stanced one that we both knew, but I still objected. She 
was lost for about a month before I went West in '54, but 
Steve found her after I had gone, and so she came into 
possession of my father, as mentioned in a former sketch. 

When I returned, over five years later, my old chums 
were looked up. Steve had grown into a strong man, 
Pete Loeser had gone West, George Scott had acciden- 
tally killed himself while pulling a loaded gun from a 
bed, and quite a number of changes had taken place. I 
did but little at fishing or shooting for a year, and then 
the war broke out. Some time in July, 1861, Steve told 
me about the scheme of Colonel Hiram Berdan to recruit 
a company of sharpshooters, every man of which must be 
able to make a string of ten shots at a certain distance 
whose united measurements from the centre of the target 
should not exceed a certain number of inches. I forget 
the figures, but they were not in excess of the scores 
usually made by the riflemen on the ice. 

"Now," said Steve, "you can pass this test; it is not a 
severe one — merely intended to get men who are fair 
shots, and know how to use and care for a rifle. After 
enlistment and muster every man will be given the rank 
and pay of a second lieutenant, and will have a darkey to 
carry his rifle and equipments. I've heard you say you'd 
like to go, and here is your chance. I'll go if you will." 

"Steve," said I, "there is much doubt if my score 
would pass ; you know that I do not see well at a distance, 
and besides this my family affairs forbid my going. 
That's a queer story about the enlisted men ranking as 
commissioned officers; where did you get that?" 

"Why, that's the arrangement between Colonel Ber- 
dan and the War Department; the men will all be com- 
missioned after they are mustered into the United States 
service; at least that is what they tell me." 



152 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

While it was out of the question for me to think of 
going at that time, and as there was then no doubt but 
the trouble would be all over in a few months and my 
services would not be needed, still this story of the rank 
of enlisted men seemed strange. I knew little of mili- 
tary matters, but I had friends who were well posted. I 
met Colonel Michael K. Bryan, of the Twenty-fifth State 
Militia, afterward Colonel One Hundred and Seventy- 
fifth New York Volunteers, who was killed at Port Hud- 
son on June 14, 1863, and sez I to Colonel Mike, sez I: 
"Colonel Bryan, our friend, Steve Martin, tells me that 
in the regiment of sharpshooters which Colonel Berdan 
is raising every enlisted man will be a second lieutenant 
after his muster into the United States service. How is 
this?" 

"Steve proposed to you to enlist?" 

"Yes; said he would if I would." 

Then Colonel Mike sez he to me, sez he: "That's a 
beautiful bit of gossamer from Steve's workshop, spun 
to catch such green bottles as you. A regiment of sec- 
ond lieutenants! I suppose the corporals must be cap- 
tains and the sergeants field officers, and just how they 
would find rank enough for the drum major only Steve 
could tell. Did he tell you that he had authority to raise 
a company for this regiment and already had his com- 
mission as captain?" 

"No, that's all news to me. Is it so?" 

"Yes, he has the company partly filled and his com- 
mission has been issued." 

"Thank you very much, Colonel; I think I under- 
stand the situation now. Good morning." 

This was some time in late July, and I talked with 
Steve often and he appeared anxious to enlist if I would. 
Nearly six years among men who were simple in their 



STEPHEN MARTIN. 153 

ways had shown its effect. I was very green! The fact 
was painfully evident, and after a month or more of lis- 
tening to Steve and doing a little thinking, I said: "I 
heard yesterday that the Governor had given you a cap- 
tain's commission in Berdan's sharpshooters." 

"Yes, I got it last week. You see, I had been at 
work for the regiment because I was bound to go out 
with it, and my friends told this to the Governor, and he 
said that I deserved a captaincy and issued the commis- 
sion at once. Now I'm in a position to make you a 
definite proposition. The other company officers have 
not been appointed, and will not be until the company 
is full, and if you will enlist with me I will have you ap- 
pointed first lieutenant before we leave the State." 

"Thank you very much, Steve, old boy! I'll think it 
over. Somehow it doesn't seem much to be a first lieu- 
tenant in a regiment wholly composed of second lieuten- 
ants ; but you know that I know nothing of these things, 
and if I should decide to go with you of course I trust all 
this detail to you as an old chum, for I am ignorant of 
all that pertains to soldiering." 

"Very well! If you will go with me I'll fix you all 
right and look after your interests as I would my own. 
That story about the privates being all second lieuten- 
ants is not true; it came from some fellow in the Ad- 
jutant-General's office, but that's all right between us. 
I'll fix it right for you." 

I went home that night and in a dream John Atwood 
and I were snaring suckers with a fine copper wire on the 
end of a pole. We were landing them bravely for a 
while, and then things got into one of those queer mix- 
tures that dreams are only capable of and which never 
untangle. John Atwood disappeared and Steve Martin 
stood where he had been, and as he lifted an unusually 



154 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

large sucker to the bank I felt that I was being choked — 
and awoke. 

The rush of awakening thoughts brought Longfel- 
low's lines: 

" 'Twas but a dream; let it pass, let it vanish like so many others! 
What I thought was a flower is only a weed, and is worthless." 

And then the reply of Clarence to Brakenbury came 
up: 

"Oh! I have pass'd a miserable night, 
So full of fearful dreams, of ugly sights, 
That, as I am a Christian faithful man, 
I would not spend another such a night. 
Though 'twere to buy a world of happy days." 

After this I never heard of Stephen. I looked for 
him in the army, but never could find any who knew 
him. When we lay in the trenches of Cold Harbor for 
ten days within one hundred yards of the enemy a de- 
tachment of Berdan's sharpshooters was our picket as 
well as skirmish line, and as they could not leave their 
pits in daytime and live, I used to ask after Steve when a 
man came over to our works at night for rations or am- 
munition, but none of them knew him. After the war 
none of the boys seemed to know what "got" Steve. 
Phisterer's "New York in the Rebellion," p. 517, says 
of this regiment: "Company B, Captain Stephen Martin, 
* * * was organized at Albany, and mustered into 
the United States service for three years, November 29, 
1861." The official register of volunteer officers gives 
his resignation as November 15, 1861. Therefore I am 
not now surprised that I could not find him in the field, 
when he resigned his commission fourteen days before 
his company was mustered into the service. 

Looking all this over in the light of riper years, I 



STEPHEN MARTIN. 155 

have been impressed with the high-minded and honor- 
able way in which John Atwood snared suckers. There 
was no false pretence by John. He did not take the 
sucker into his confidence. Not he! The loop was 
lowered in plain sight, drifted down behind his gills in 
broad daylight — the pole jerked, and there is your fish. 

As I recall the things which happened years ago I 
have great respect for John's honest, straightforward 
methods. 



GEORGE RAYNOR. 

DUCK SHOOTING AND A TRAGEDY. 

THE time came when school was left and business 
began. The happy days were in the past. No 
more Saturday holiday, and the grind of record- 
ing shipping marks, weighing goods and signing re- 
ceipts, when ducks were flying down the river and car- 
loads of venison were coming in, was getting too much 
to bear. In that vast and vague country called the West 
there was freedom — and game. Finding opposition 
useless, father sent to Michigan for his rifle, the one that 
William and Joe Brockway had used for years, and gave 
it to me when I left. 

Said he, "You may have this rifle, if you are bound 
to go, and the only thing I ask of you is never to join 
any expedition that goes out to murder poor Indians." 

That was an easy thing to promise because there had 
never been such a thought or desire. I was twenty-one 
and bound for the great West, with no definite idea what 
part of it would be best to go to or just what was to be 
done when the journey ended. Pete Loeser, the Ger- 
man boy mentioned in the last history, wanted to go to 
some relatives in Wisconsin, and he went along. At 
Chicago we could decide what would be best to do, and 
there we stuck. 

One day while fishing in the lake off the breakwater 
an old gentleman of eighty years named George Raynor, 
who had frequently fished with us, told me this story: 
"At the massacre of Wyoming, in 1778, my old parents 

156 



GEORGE RAY NOR. 157 

were killed, and I, a boy of about four years old, was 
taken by the Seneca Indians and then sent to Canada by 
a British officer, where- 1 lived with a farmer until I ran 
away and shipped on a vessel that went to England. 
There I worked in a cutler's shop and learned the trade. 
How many years passed I don't know, but the desire to 
get back to America grew strong, and I went to Liver- 
pool and shipped for New York. By this time I was 
a young man, and I worked at my trade until I saved 
money enough to try to seek my relatives, if I had any. 
I remembered a sister, Susan, and a brother, John, both 
older than I, and I longed to see them. I had forgotten 
the name of the place where the massacre occurred, and 
I did not know in what State it happened. There was 
an indistinct recollection of an alarm at night, a hurrying 
to arms, and the burning of buildings and killing of 
people. I had kept a little picture book with my name 
in it. One day a lady came in the New York shop, and 
bought some cutlery to be shipped to some point in Lu- 
zerne County, Pa. The name of the place seemed fa- 
miliar, and I talked with her. She knew of my people, 
and the result was that I went there and afterward mar- 
ried her daughter That's what we call an eel-pout 

that Pete's got. The fish is not eatable. Excuse me, 
where was I? Oh, yes; we prospered, and all went well 
until our eldest boy was killed in the Mexican war and 
our daughter was burned to death in a fire that destroyed 
my business a year later, and with my wife and only boy 
I left New York for this place in 1848. In a railroad 
accident my wife was killed and injuries about my head 
hurt my eyes, so that it was uphill work to make a liv- 
ing until my boy William helped out by singing in the 
church choir. Now that I am nearly blind he is my sole 
support. You've heard his wonderful tenor voice in 



158 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

Warner's Hall, on Randolph street, where he now sings 
with 'Northrup's Metropolitan Minstrels.' " 

During this tale the fish had taken my bait unnoticed, 
although Pete had attended to business and taken several 
fish. The story as told by the old man had made me 
wish he would stop, for there was no fun in the way he 
told it, and it had started a leak in my eyes. But down the 
breakwater — an old one, not in existence now — came the 
sprightly young tenor, who put his arms around the old 
man's neck and kissed him, saying: "Well, father, what 
luck to-day?" 

"Billy," said the old man, "I fear I have not fish 
enough for breakfast; I have been telling your friend the 
family history because he seemed to take an interest in it, 
and I forgot to put my line out. Here is the hook and 
the bait bv my side now. My old eyes do not see well 
enough to tell if a hook is baited or not, and certainly 
cannot see if the line is in the water or is coiled up at my 
feet. Now, Fred, don't you honestly think that an old 
man who has lived his life and can't see " 

"Here, father, stop that. You must meet the in- 
firmities of age and accident in a philosophical manner. 
I can and will care for you while I have life and strength, 
and I don't want to hear any more of that talk." 

The young man baited his father's line and we fished 
on. This eel-pout, as he called it, was a new fish to me 
then, and its long, flattened head and eel-like fins made 
it an object to be remembered. This specimen was 
twenty inches long. Pete said: "Py chimminy! he's cot 
a whisker on his chin, so like a pullhead, on'y de pullhead 
he cot fife oder six." And this was a wonder to us, for 
there were no fish with barbels where we had fished ex- 
cept the bullhead or catfish. We found the fish quite 
common in the lake. In other parts it is called "lawyer," 



GBORGE RAYNOR. 159 

"ling," and has several names besiaes that of Lota, which 
the scientists have taught us to believe is its true name 
Twirling the sinkers vertically, and letting go at the 
proper time, we cast our bait as far as possible from the 
breakwater and hauled in hand under hand, and a good- 
sized pike perch or a big eel-pout made quite a fight at 
the end of a long line. Even the common yellow perch 
ran larger than we were accustomed to see them, and we 
green Eastern boys voted it the finest fishing we ever 
had. 

Mr. Raynor told me that there was very good fishing 
in the South Branch of the Chicago River near where he 
lived on Van Beuren street. Those who only know the 
Chicago River as it is now may doubt this statement, for 
in its black and ill-smelling water a self-respecting mud 
turtle would decline to live. Yet I ask to be believed 
when I say that many good fish were taken from the 
docks in the South Branch by myself and others forty- 
four years ago. As a rule, the fish were not as large 
as those taken in the lake, and just what kinds they were 
is partly forgotten, but yellow perch were plenty, and so 
were small dogfish — Amia. These latter even the om- 
nivorous Pete could not eat, although he pronounced the 
eel-pout "Pooty goot." 

The old gentleman was greatly pleased when I called 
at his house for him to go and fish. He said: "It is very 
good of you to come for me; very few care to bother 
with a man when he is no longer young and is nearly 
blind. I often think I've stayed here too long, and only 
for Billy " 

I interrupted with: "Yes, Billy is a good boy, one in 
a thousand, and you may be proud of such a devoted 
son." Then he was led from that depressing line of 
thought by a story of a deer hunt in northern New York, 



160 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

and of jolly times in camp with Port Tyler, until he forgot 
his infirmities and told stories of fishing in salt water and 
of shooting bay birds on Long Island, which were un- 
known sports to me. He became enthusiastic and final- 
ly said: "I'll sing you a hunting song which I learned in 
England," and after crooning for the key sang in a rich 
baritone, a little shaky with age, the following, which I 
never heard before nor since: 



Some love to roam over the dark sea's foam, 

Where the shrill wind whistles free. 
But a chosen band, in a mountain land, 

Oh, a life in the woods for me. 
The deer we mark thro' the forest dark, 

And the prowling wolf we track, 
Our right good cheer is the wild boar, here; 

Then why should the hunter lack? 



Billy Raynor, the exquisite tenor, came honestly by 
his voice, that was certain, and I induced the old gentle- 
man to sing it until both words and tune are as familiar 
to-day as then. A tolerably musical ear told me long 
ago that if I ever attempted to sing the police would pull 
the house on the suspicion that there was a dog fight in 
the back room, and therefore whenever asked if I can 
sing I quote the Hon. Bardwell Slote and reply: "Those 
who have heard me say I can't." But in my house is a 
young lady and a piano, and on the wall of my den hangs 
a banjo of the vintage of i860, and its strings seem to 
have treasured up the air of that hunting song so that the 
piano sympathizes with it, and the young lady sings the 
words occasionally to the accompaniment of the afore- 
said implement of torture. There was a sort of "yo, ho" 
chorus which is forgotten. The second verse ran: 



GEORGE RAYNOR. 161 

When the morning gleams o'er the mountain streams 

Then merrily forth we go, 
To follow the stag o'er the slippery crag 

And chase the bounding doe. 
For with steady aim at the bounding game, 

And a heart that fears no foe; 
Thro' the darksome glade in the forest shade, 

Oh, merrily forth we go! 

The little we know of it serves to bring up the mem- 
ory of the dear old singer who sang it amid the unpoetic 
surroundings of the Chicago River one day when his 
poor heart was lighter than usual. 

One day he said: "Billy is going to have a week off, 
the hall is to be renovated, and he will spend his vacation 
down at Kankakee shooting ducks, and last night he 
said that he would like to have you go with him if you 
could get ofif. Poor boy! he needs a week oflf if anyone 
does; working in the office of the grain warehouse all 
day and singing at the minstrels six nights and in the 
church choir twice on Sundays keeps him so busy that he 
never has an hour to himself. Only for me he would not 
have to work so hard, and I sometimes think " 

"Now see here, Mr. Raynor, this is only an idle fancy 
of yours. Billy is a busy boy, to be sure, but he likes it, 
and his main delight is to see you happy. You are not a 
burden to him, but it is his pleasure to see you made com- 
fortable. He has no bad or expensive habits, and I 
know that his first thought is about you. Drop the idea 
that he would be better oflf without you. I believe that I 
know him better than you do." 

"It seems good to hear you say so," said he, "and it is 
no doubt true; but my mind has outlived my body, and 
at times I feel morbid, blue, or whatever you may call it. 
If you will go down there with Billy I will know that you 



162 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

and he will look out for each other. I will take a vaca- 
tion if I know that you two boys are together taking one. 
Will you go?" 

"I will find out. Like Billy, I must consult others. 
To-morrow night you will know, but it might be well to 
have the invitation from Billy. Surely, he cannot expect 
me to go with him without a direct invitation ; I was with 
him last night and he did not mention it." 

"Not to you, but he first consulted me as one whose 
approval of a companion for a week seemed to him to be 
necessary. No matter how much Billy might think of 
you he would want his father to know the kind of com- 
pany he was in and have my approval. His business as- 
sociates are not always his social ones, and like the wise 
boy that he is he separates them. He doesn't care to ask 
your companion, Pete, to go because he overheard him 
say something about his kissing me. Billy was brought 
up that way, and doesn't like any comment on his kiss- 
ing his father. We are all there is left of the family, and 
our customs are our own." 

A ten-gauge gun was hired, and we went down some 
fifty miles south of Chicago to the great ducking grounds 
of the Kankakee, of which I had heard so much. Even 
the preparation for the start was a revelation to one 
whose idea of duck shooting about Albany had been that 
it was a large day if he got ten shots and four ducks. 
Then one pound of powder and four pounds of shot was 
a great allowance, and more than half of it was lugged 
home at night unless it was expended on blackbirds, rail 
or other small game. Therefore, when we talked over 
the trip and came to the detail of ammunition I was 
astounded when Billy said: "Let's see, six days; well, say 
twelve pounds of powder, fifty pounds of shot — ounce 
and a quarter to each load — that's fifteen ounces of shot 



GEORGE RAYNOR. 163 

for a dozen charges, say a pound for a dozen loads and 
a hundred shots per day ; yes, fifty pounds will do to start 
with, and we can get more down there if we need it, but 
these things can be bought cheaper here." 

There was a belief which I cherished that I had done 
some shooting, and had on one occasion loaded up with 
two pounds of powder and eight pounds of shot for a 
week's sport, but Billy's figures staggered me — meta- 
phorically speaking, "they took my breath away." As 
soon as I could come up to the surface I ventured to 
ask: "Have you ever shot down there at Kankakee?" 

"Oh, yes; I go down there in spring and fall; the 
ducks are plenty, I assure you. Did you think that I 
didn't know anything about the place?" 

"No, I only asked for information because the 
amount of ammunition seemed somewhat larger than I 
have been accustomed to use, but if you think it is what 
we will need it's all right; you know best." 

"You'll need it all. Have everything packed for the 
eleven P. M. train Sunday night, and I'll meet you at the 
station and we'll have a good time for a week." 

Such flights of ducks! Such flocks of ducks! The 
sky, the lower air and the water was full of them. As 
Billy rowed our little boat along the marshes in a small 
stream it seemed to me that he was wasting time and 
missing shots, but when he pulled up on a dry point of 
land and we hauled the boat ashore and propped it on 
edge, the reeds and rushes with which we covered it 
made a splendid blind to shoot from. No decoys were 
necessary; the ducks were uneducated in the matter of 
artificial blinds, and came past ours without a thought of 
danger. We two were not up to the modern plan of 
having several guns, or the slaughter might have been 
greater. Where I had shot, along the Popskinny, a half 



164 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

dozen ducks was a large day's shooting and one was not 
considered bad. Day after day no duck was bagged, 
and a few rail and blackbirds were accepted as better 
than nothing — with the hope of better luck next time. 
On those trips mud hens and hell-divers, or even a shel- 
drake, was counted as a duck, and it was a new sensation 
to be told: "Don't shoot; they're only sawbills." 

Accustomed to taking in everything wMch came 
within range, this was something new. The fact that a 
gunner could sit down in cold blood and select the kind 
of waterfowl on which to expend ammunition was a nov- 
elty. Instead of wishing for any sort of duck to come 
within shooting range, here we were refusing shots to all 
except a favored (?) few. 

It was cruel shooting — cruel because it was waste- 
ful We shifted our blind so that we shot against the 
wind as it changed, and the dead ducks drifted to us. A 
cripple that escaped the first fire could not be chased, for 
we had only one boat, and if not killed before it got out 
of range it crept into the marsh to be eaten by mink, 
gulls or hawks. A philosopher might ask what differ- 
ence all this made to the duck: whether the mink or the 
birds got him, or whether his carcass passed into the 
hands of a hotel chef and was served to a convivial party, 
with the accompaniment of celery and juice of the vine? 

We shot only at mallards, pintails, widgeon and teal, 
letting all other fowl pass. At night we counted out 153 
ducks of these species — the number is remembered be- 
cause it was the most wonderful duck shooting for two 
guns that I had ever dreamed of — and we could have 
taken in a number of butterballs, whistlers and other 
ducks if we had wished to kill them, but Billy said they 
were not worth wasting powder on. 

Heretofore there had never been more game than 



GEORGE RAY NOR. 165 

could be taken care of and consumed at home or given 
to friends, and the presence of about 350 pounds of ducks 
in the boat and the prospect of five days' more 
shooting presented a problem. What could we do 
with this mass of game? We could not eat much of it 
and we had but few local friends. In the excitement of 
shooting these questions had not obtruded themselves as 
they did now. Pondering on these things, I asked: 
"Billy, what will we do with all the ducks?" 

"They are all right; there'll be a man at the landing 
to meet us who will take care of them; there he stands 
now waiting for us. He will send them to market every 
day, and on Saturday we will keep out what we want to 
take home." 

The man took the game and put it in his wagon and 
drove off to the railway station, and after supper he came 
in and settled up, paying us $15.30 for our ducks, or 
about what it had cost for the expenses for ammunition 
and travel. This was certainly paying expenses, and 
just what I had hoped for in going West, but somehow 
it was not satisfactory. It brought into the transaction 
a mercenary spirit which had never before been con- 
nected with my sport. At first the feeling of dissatisfac- 
tion was vague and without shape. We divided the 
money and talked it over. The expedition was more 
than successful from a financial point, but there was 
something in my manner which caused my companion 
to say: 

"You don't seem as enthusiastic as you did. What's 
the matter? Don't you like the table they set here, or 
did something happen down in the marsh which dis- 
pleased you? Be frank with me, and spit it out if any- 
thing has gone wrong; don't sulk, fire it out." 

Up to this point I really did not know the cause of a 



166 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

change of demeanor which had been noticed. There 
was only a dim consciousness of something unpleasant. 

"Billy," said I, "if I have appeared to be depressed it 
is because our ducks were carted off by an unknown man 
to be sold to unknown consumers in the market. Every 
duck, pigeon or rabbit that I ever killed before to-day 
was either eaten by my own family or given to a friend. 
Part of the triumph of the hunt lay in the bringing of 
the game to the table, and as my friends enjoyed the treat 
I also enjoyed being the treater. If I was at the feast 
every mouthful eaten by each individual was enjoyed by 
me as a contributor, whose hard work on shore or upland 
was rewarded by the knowledge that others were enjoy- 
ing the fruits of my skill and " 

"That you are a blooming egotist whose personality 
enters into every duck or other game. Is that what you 
mean?" 

"Billy, you have put it into words which are strictly 
true, but were in a nebulous condition in my brain. You 
have summed up the case in a masterly way. Never be- 
fore did I measure the value of game of any kind in 
money, although I have had a desire to turn my love of 
field sports into a way of making a living. This desire 
was in a crude form before this, but now that the man 
has carted off my game to be eaten by men who do not 
thank me for it, do not know me, and may be drunk 
when they eat it, I wish I had my ducks and he had his 
money " 

"Well, you'll go out in the morning and shoot some 
more, won't you?" 

"Yes, but I'll build a blind and use the boat to chase 
cripples. I don't like to see a wounded duck go ofT into 
the marsh to die or to be eaten by minks or gulls. It 
isn't right." 



GEORGE RAY NOR. 167 

"All right," said he; "anything to keep peace in the 
family, but down here ducks are too plenty to go chasing 
cripples. The gunners here will think you are crazy to 
waste your time in that way and scare ofif a flock to get a 
cripple. Go ahead, though ; I don't care." 

I tried it, but it did keep flocks from coming our way. 
Some gunners one hundred yards below protested, and 
the chasing of cripples was stopped. 

We shot six days. The first day more than paid all 
expenses of the trip, and there was a good balance in our 
favor as well as thirty ducks among our plunder on our 
return Saturday night. The ducks we gave to friends, 
and when Pete Loeser received a pair and heard the story 
he said: "Py shimminy, de air must pe so full mit ducks 
dere vos no room for shot to co between dem ven dey 
fly. I never dinks dere vos so many." 

I had an invitation to dine with Mr. Raynor and his 
son next day, and the old gentleman was very jolly and 
sang the hunter's song and that sweetest of old English 
ballads, "Sally in Our Alley," while the son, who, like all 
professional singers, usually declined to sing on social 
occasions, at the earnest request of the ladies gave us 
"Mary of Argyle" and several other songs. When the 
others had retired Mr. Raynor beat me at two games of 
chess, the clock struck midnight and the vacation week 
ended. 

The winter closed in and before spring I could now 
and then checkmate my elderly friend, and when that 
happened he would explain how it could not have been 
done if he had not made a certain move some ten moves 
back of the finish. He was a delightful old man when 
his mind was off his physical troubles, and he and his 
son were devoted to each other. As soon as the ice was 
out of the river he sent me word to come up and fish 



168 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

with him the first moment possible. His bodily infirm- 
ities had increased, and he had now but one eye that was 
of service, and that was very poor. I baited his hooks 
and threw out his line, and when he pulled in a fish saw 
that the hooks did not enter his hands. He was quite 
despondent one day. Said he: "Freddy, my boy, I v/on- 
der that the good Lord doesn't take me. Many a time 
I've asked Him to call me, but for some reason He does 
not do it. I am only a burden on Billy, and the pains in 
my head from that railroad accident are more than I can 
bear. Billy has a severe cold, and has been laid off sev- 
eral days; if anything should happen to him I " 

Things were getting uncomfortable, and to turn the 
tide I ventured to say: "Don't worry about Billy; we all 
have colds and get over them; of course, he couldn't sing 
in his present state, but he'll be all right i.ext v^-eek. 
There! That fish is off and your bait is all right again." 

Billy's cold did not get better, and I was called to sit 
up with him. Pneumonia developed and the old man 
had to be removed from his room. Pete had gone to 
Wisconsin, and the minstrel boys and the church choir 
sent watchers in such numbers that they could not be 
used. 

It was my duty to superintend the watchers and com- 
fort the father, but the end came in a few days. Rela- 
tives from Boston came to the funeral, but Mr. Raynor 
clung to me and insisted on my being with him at the 
last sad rites. 

The next day, while walking up Market street, I 
heard a little girl say : "They've found a drowned man in 
the river; come on, Maggie, let's go down and see him." 
I followed along in idle curiosity and saw the man. It 
was the body of an old man, and I gave his name to the 
coroner. 



CHARLES GUYON. 

GIGGING FISH IN WISCONSIN — SHOOTING A PEER WITH 
WOODEN PLUGS. 

THE little mining town of Potosi lies* in the south- 
west corner of Wisconsin. It has three streets 
in the only possible places for streets; the three 
narrow valleys which meet in the centre of the village 
afford outlets for travel. Some two miles to the west 
one valley leads to the Grant River, near its mouth, and 
here a Mississippi steamer came for freight occasionally. 
A stage came from Galena down another valley, and thus 
Potosi was connected with the outside world. Here I 
drifted in the spring, and found good fishing and shoot- 
ing. My friend Loeser had gone a few miles further 
north to Fennimore Grove, near Lancaster, where he 
settled down into a farmer's life. 

Charles Guyon was one of the French-Canadian col- 
ony which formed the largest portion of the village. 
There was a settlement of Cornish miners in one of the 
outskirts called British Hollow, but the two peoples 
mixed very little except in the way of trade and in the 
gambling rooms, which were then run wide open. 
Charley was a strong young fellow about my age, and 
he proposed that we should go jacking for fish some 
night. 

"I don't know the first thing about jacking, Charley. 
I'll go and try it. Tell me all about it." 

"Well, it's this way," said he (very few of the French- 
Canadians spoke anything like a dialect). "We have a 
jack light on one side of the bow and it hangs over the 

169 



170 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

water, so that no fire drops into the boat. One man pad- 
dles and the other stands in the bow, and when he sees a 
fish he gigs it." 

The jack was a cresset made of strap iron — a twelve- 
inch ring to which half a dozen strips were riveted to 
form the bowl, which was fastened to an iron staff long 
enough to bring the bowl above a man's eyes as he stood 
in the boat. Charley had gathered a lot of bark from 
the shell-bark hickory, which he said made the best of all 
lights, and we got a ride to the landing with our traps. 
The "gig" was a spear of some six or eight prongs, with 
a wooden handle about eight feet long, to which a small 
cord was attached to the upper end to recover it by. 

As soon as it was dark enough we lighted the jack 
and started. The boat was a light-bottomed scow and 
I used the paddle. Guyon stood in the bow and gave 
'orders; he did not use nautical terms, but said "right" 
or "left" as he required the boat to go. Soon he said, 
"Steady, left, hold up," and then after a pause, "Go on 
slow; there's a big pike about here, but he was shy and 
I couldn't get a crack at him. Hold on, right a little," 
and he poised his gig and sent it buzzing into the water. 
"A clean miss. I didn't strike low enough. Go toward 
that tree top up there; there may be some buffalo 
near it." 

Surely I must have misunderstood; he could not mean 
that buffalo might be grazing in that tree top, but I was 
in a strange land, and my new friend might be having a 
little fun at my expense, so I kept still. Soon the orders 
came, and as the spear left his hand it struck and gave a 
little, tremble, and my companion yelled out: "I got 
him!" and taking hold of the string, which was tied 
to the gunwale, he pulled the gig staff to him, and 
then landed in the boat a huge fish of about twenty 



CHARLES GUY ON. 171 

pounds — huge to me. "There's your buffalo," said he. 
I looked at the great, ungainly fish, with a hump on 
its back and a mouth like a sucker, and asked if it was 
good to eat. 

"Oh, yes; it's better than red-horse, but not as good 
as bass and pike. Here, you take the gig and I'll pad- 
dle. Now you've got to put the gig into the fish, and not 
in the place he looks to be at. If he's nearly under you 
throw right at him, always with the gig across his body 
and not in line with him. The further he is away the 
more you must throw under him, because he's deeper 
than he looks to be. You know how a board appears to 
be bent when half of it is in the water; the lower end 
seems to be higher than it is. Well, it's just so with a 
fish; unless he's right under you he's deeper than he 
looks, and the further off he is the deeper under him you 
must strike." 

I took the gig, with some doubt of my ability to 
gauge the depth of a fish and judge his true position, for 
I knew what Guyon said was true, only I had never 
thought of it before. I did think of his names of fishes; 
we had a buffalo and he spoke of red-horse. I had seen 
dogfish and catfish, but where was this kind of nomen- 
clature to end? Soon I saw several large fish. There 
had been plenty of small ones seen, but with a twenty- 
pound fish in the boat as a pattern my ideas were no 
doubt enlarged. Soon I said: "Steady, stop!" and 
plunge went the gig and missed. 

"I knew you wouldn't touch that fish," said Guyon; 
"you threw too far from the boat, and it went clean over 
him by two feet. Next time aim two feet below where 
he looks to be at and you may get him. It's very seldom 
that a man throws the gig under a fish that lies ten feet 
away from the boat. Try it again." 



172 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

At the next chance I was bound to miss the fish by 
throwing under it, if I missed it at all, and I plunged the 
gig in the water at what seemed an absurd low point and 
struck a pike of some five pounds. 

"There," said the man at the paddle, "I knew you 
could do it if you could only believe the fish was a foot 
or two below where he looked to be at." This use of the 
word "at" was new to me then, but I found it common 
in the West and South. Lately it has had attention 
called to it by its use in Congress. It sounds odd to 
those who hear it for the first time. 

And so we passed the first half of the night, and re- 
turned to the warehouse and slept in it, for Charley had 
the key; but we took the precaution to take our fish in- 
side, too, for he said: "The moon will be up in an hour 
and she'll spoil the fish, and then we don't want minks 
and wildcats carryin' 'em ofif or chewing them up. We'll 
get a ride up in the morning, for Joe Hall's going to 
bring down some potatoes and there'll be teams down 
with lead." 

Morning came and we Went back with the first empty 
wagon, taking over two hundred pounds of fish — bass, 
pike, buffalo and big red-finned suckers, which proved 
to be the "red-horse;" and I had been initiated into the 
mysteries of jacking for fish, handling a gig, had re- 
ceived a lesson in practical optics, and knew positively 
that a fish in the water was not always in the place which 
it appeared to be "at." 

Somewhere in an omnivorous course of reading I re- 
member a statement that "Man shall not live by bread 
alone," and in the practical every-day life it began to be 
painfully evident that no matter how desirable it might 
be to hunt and fish forever, there were needs other than 
what the chase afiforded. There was a man who really 



CHARLES GUY ON. ,173 

demanded pay for letting me live in his house. Of 
course the house was built, and I did not hurt it by living 
in it; but he had put a man out because he did not 
pay. Then there came a day when a really serious bit 
of thinking over the sordid spirit of man had been in- 
dulged in for fully ten minutes, when Charley Guyon 
came along. 

"Say," he began, "you ain't doin' anything, an' I want 
a pardner to sink a shaft. I think I know where we can 
make a strike, an' I've got all the tools. What d'ye say, 
will you jine me?" 

"Well, Charley, I was just thinking that it was about 
time that I went at something ; but I don't know the first 
thing about lead mining. Tell me all about it; how do 
you do it?" 

"It's just like this: A man owns a piece of land, and 
he throws it open for mining or he keeps it for other pur- 
poses. Suppose he throws it open; then any one can 
dig, and he takes one-tenth of the mineral for rent. A 
windlass, rope, bucket, pick and spade are all the tools 
we use. Mineral may be struck at ten feet, or it may 
be at sixty; but we go down until we come to hard pan; 
it never lies below that. You may get some "drift" that 
will pay or may not; it's all chance. You may work a 
week and not get a dollar, and you may strike a lead*; 
and then you drift in and follow it. You see, there are 
lots of abandoned shafts which were sunk ten years ago, 
when mineral was worth ten dollars per thousand. Now 
it is worth thirty dollars, and two men can make wages 
if they get a thousand pounds per week." 

"And a fellow has to work down there under ground 
like a mole to do this?" 

* ♦This is pronounced leed in the mines, and is a corruption of lode. 



174 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

"Yes, but pardners take turns, one in the shaft and 
one at the windlass, and of a hot day you'll prefer to be 
below. There's men here who hire other men to 'tend 
windlass, and they take the chances — make it all if they 
strike it big, or lose their time and the man's wages. It's 
all chance, just the same as when you go into Coons' 
and sit in a keno game; you may win or you may not. 
But all business is chance anyway, just like gambling; 
the only man who's got a sure thing is the man who 
works for wages, and he gets left sometimes." 

Behold the mighty hunter, with a band and candle 
socket on his hat, grubbing away like a well-digger, and 
assorting an occasional lump of "drift," with its white 
coating, from the earth and clay, and depositing it in a 
"hen's nest" until there was a bucketful — always hoping 
that the next stroke of the pick would cut into a bright 
bit of galena; or at the windlass waiting for the word 
"up," and dumping the earth on the down-hill side and 
keeping an eye out for stray bits which had escaped the 
eyes below. So passed the summer, with occasional 
fishing trips with Henry Neaville and his brother Frank, 
for Guyon cared little for the "sportsmanlike methods of 
fishing; gigging and netting them in quantities was his 
delight, yet the fun of it was ever uppermost in his mind. 
He thought fishing with a hook and line was too slow 
work; his mind was active and required more exciting 
sport. 

In considering what constitutes sport, a question on 
which the doctors disagree, it might be well to allow a 
little latitude for individual notions; I was about to say 
idiosyncrasies, but if Guyon read this he would ask: 
"What's them?" and so we will let it go at "notions." 
Please remember that this was forty years ago, and none 
of us had given thought to the possible exhaustion of a 



CHARLES GUVON. 175 

source of fish supply which seemed only to invite the 
slayer by appearing next year in undiminished numbers. 
This is the only excuse 1 have to offer for our destruction 
of life in those days of its plenty, and an excuse seems 
necessary to-day. If it is sufficient, well and good; it is 
all I have, and I throw myself on the mercy of the court. 
We all needed education in the matter of fish and sfame 
preservation in those days, and I hope that I have atoned 
for the misdeeds of my youth by both precept and ex- 
ample in later years. 

In sketching Charles Guyon, who was an honest, 
sturdy fellow, not averse to a fight if it was forced upon 
him, but not a quarrelsome man, it is only fair to him to 
say that, having been reared in a mining town, gambling 
came as a natural thing, just as luck in mining did, and 
if his week had been successful Saturday night found 
him at the keno table staking the last sovereign that he 
had earned. The smelters sent wagons to weigh and 
gather the mineral every Saturday afternoon, and the pay 
was in British sovereigns, which passed for $5, for no 
miner would accept paper money for his mineral, al- 
though he sometimes did in exchange for his gold. 

Saturday nights the gambling places and the drunk- 
eries kept open until morning, and the Cornish miners 
from British Hollow rested from their labors by drink- 
ing, gambling and fighting. These were the highest 
forms of sport known to them, and in fact to the majority 
of men who work underground all the week in all parts 
of the world. One night I dropped into Sam Coons' to 
look on. Here I want to say that I have never won or 
lost one dollar in any form of gambling except at the 
house of a gentleman in Germany, where a small stake 
was the custom, and there was no escape. I don't claim 
any special credit for this because I never had a desire to 



176 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

gamble — was too cowardly to risk my wealth, if you wish 
to put it in that way. Plenty of good men gamble, and 
I have other faults, but am not one of those who, as 
Butler ("Hudibras") says: 

"Compound for siris they are inclined to 
By damning those they have no mind to." 

I have occasionally played cards in a perfunctory 
way, without caring for them, and have engaged in 
games to decide who should pay for oysters, cigars and 
such other goods as an army sutler possessed, but a book 
always suited me better. Speaking of games in connec- 
tion with Potosi wakes me up. In the sketch of General 
Martin Miller the fact was recorded that Herr Dries- 
bach, the great lion tamer, used to come to my father's 
house to play chess, and to my great surprise Bill Pat- 
terson pointed out a finely-built, powerful man whom 
we had just passed and said: "That's Driesbach, the lion 
tamer." I hurried after him, and the result was that I 
often went out to his farm of an evening and had a game 
of chess, the only game that I ever thought worth the 
candle. Chess players were very scarce in Potosi, and 
Driesbach and I were out of practice, but if I won one 
game out of five it was sufHcient. 

One evening he said: "You aren't one-half the man 
your father was ; he must have been over six feet." 

"Yes; six feet two inches, and no spare meat." 

"Well, I remember once when we crossed the river 
to Albany in a small boat, and a 'longshoreman was 
smoking a pipe in the faces of two ladies who sat in the 
stern, your father spoke to him about it and got an 
impudent reply, and he then jerked the pipe from the 
fellow's mouth and threw it overboard. Then threats of 
vengeance came when we should get on shore. Your 



CHARLES GUYON. 177 

father hurried up, and ran up the steps to the dock and 
waited. Then he said: 'My friend, you were going to 
lick me when you got on shore. I'm in a hurry to go 
to business and have only got a few minutes to spare, 
and I would like you to do it now.' The man looked 
him over and said: 'Be jabers, it isn't worth while for the 
likes of us to be foighten' about an ould pipe.' Now, 
Fred, that 'longshoreman would have cleaned you up in 
about two seconds. Why, you ain't a bit like the old 
man." I learn from my old friend, Hon. J. W. Seaton, 
who still lives in Potosi, that Driesbach died something 
like fifteen years ago, and the vest made from a pet 
leopard skin was given by Driesbach to Judge Seaton, 
who has it now. 

When we went to work in the woods near the river 
I took my rifle as soon as September i came around and 
it was lawful to use it. This was the one that father gave 
me. I only remember that the barrel was half round 
and half octagon, an unusual departure from the general 
make of rifles, which were generally all octagon, and 
were stocked to the muzzle, although short stocks were 
coming into fashion. Calibre was a word little used in 
connection with hunting rifles, but we reckoned them 
by the number of round bullets to the pound. Squirrel 
rifles ran as small as 120 to the pound; mine was thirty 
to the pound, and that was considered very large. I 
never used any long bullets in it — "slugs" we called 
them — for the theory was that they were only good in the 
open country, and that contact with a twig would de- 
flect them more than it would round bullets. A modern 
rifleman would not know how to tell the calibre of a rifle 
by our measure, and I can't inform him. I only know 
that with such guns, and many smaller, the old-time 
hunters killed the biggest animals on the continent, often 



178 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

when the first shot must disable a grizzly or a panther, 
for it took time to measure powder and reload. 

I had to go to the village for something, and left the 
rifle loaded, also the powder horn and box of caps. The 
bullets and patches were in a leather box in my belt, 
which I wore. On returning I heard several shots some 
distance from our shaft. Guyon and the rifle were gone. 
The shots kept up, and I started at a lively gait until I 
came in view of the shooting match. There was Guyon 
in among the branches of a fallen tree; crack went the 
rifle, and a big buck charged into the branches, but could 
not reach him. His back was toward me, and I hailed: 
"Hello, Charley! What are you doin' to that deer?" 

He turned and said: "You are a great fellow to go 
off with all the bullets. Got any with you? If you have, 
throw me one. Don't come in here too close or that 
deer will kill you; he's fightin' mad now." 

I did go in on a run and got into the tree top just in 
time to avoid the charge of the buck, and handed Guyon 
a bullet, which he rammed down without a patch, and 
planted it in the deer's frontal bone and dropped him. 

Such a looking deer I never did see. Guyon's only 
bullet had broken one antler close to the head and 
angered him. The tree top was fortunately at hand 
and made a natural abattis, behind which the man could 
carry on the offensive and shift to avoid the enemy as 
occasion required. But the deer! His head was liter- 
ally skinned all around his eyes, and from his forehead 
to his nose. 

Charles said: "When he came for me and I was safe 
in this treetop I whittled green plugs for bullets, and 
thought if one took him in the eye it would drop him. 
Every time a plug hit him he would snort, shake his 
head and come at me. See how he has wet me. I think 



CHARLES GUYON. 179 

I shot more than twenty plugs at him, and I don't know 
how I would have got out of this brush if you hadn't 
come." 

The story was too good to keep. He didn't hear the 
last of it for some time. 

Bill Patterson said: "Charley, that venison was very 
good, but there was a taste of wood about it. How do 
you suppose it got that flavor?" 

Joe Hall hailed him with: "Hey, Charley! That ven- 
ison tasted as if he had broken into Darcy's shop and had 
eaten his shoe pegs. What d' ye s'pose he'd been feedin' 
on?" 

The multitude of islands between Wisconsin and 
Iowa at this point renders it difficult to tell where Grant 
River ends or loses itself in the Father of Waters. It is 
several miles from shore to shore, and channels of many 
depths and widths separate the islands. These water- 
ways, the "kills" of New York and the "bayous" of the 
lower Mississippi, are here called sloughs, pronounced 
sloo. One of the beauties of our language is that this 
word may be pronounced slufT, slouw or sloo, each hav- 
ing a different meaning. In a recent letter from Mr. 
Seaton he says, In reply to a question: "The inland island 
waters, most of which go dry in summer, I think, are 
properly called sloughs, and the name is not a provincial- 
ism peculiar to this part of the Mississippi valley. Web- 
ster gives the pronunciation 'slou,' and here it is spelled 
sloo, and means a sink or depression in the islands in 
which the water gathers and in some cases remains all the 
time, and in others it signifies channels or sluiceways in 
which part of the waters pass from one stream to the 
other, i. e., the over-swollen Mississippi to the depressed 
Grant River and vice versa; hence we have 'Swift sloo,' 
'Hay sloo' and several others known to the fishers and 



180 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

hunters. They are the natural habitat and breeding 
places for frogs, reptiles and mosquitoes, as well as a 
great resort for ducks in the spring and fall. During the 
spring freshets the fish gather in them in large quantities 
and are entrapped when the water falls, which is usually 
in August and September. This year a large number of 
German carp and black bass were taken in willow woven 
nets by the boys, although this is prohibited by law. The 
upper waters of the Mississippi were stocked a few years 
ago with these fish by the Government. It is in April 
and May, when the 'spring rise' overflows the banks and 
spreads over the bottoms, that the fat catfish, bufifalo and 
other fishes are found out of the channels and main 
streams feeding in the grassy bottoms. Then the boys 
wade in and have their fun catching them. Sloughs are 
creations of the great river and are part of it." 

The domesticated hog ran wild on these islands, and 
once a man said to me: "Now, you will want some pork, 
and you ought to buy a claim of hogs, I've got five 
marked sows on the islands, and I'll sell you a claim in 
'em fur a dollar." 

On inquiry Charley said: "That's all right. There's 
about ten claims o' hogs on the islands. It's this a-way: 
a man turns out a sow with certain ear marks, and all 
the pigs found with her in the fall are hers if there's a 
hundred. Give him a dollar and you can kill all the pigs 
you want, only don't kill an old one with marks in its 
ears." I bought in, and was part owner of, all pork on 
the hoof that had two V's in the right ear and a round 
hole in the left. 

Guyon, Bill Patterson, Henry Neaville and I went for 
pork about the middle of September. Charley and Bill 
skinned theirs, and this was the usual custom; but I agree 
with Neaville that a properly dressed pig looked best, 



CHARLES GUYON. 181 

but "How can we dress them on these islands?" I asked. 
Henry said, "I'll show you," and we pulled the scow up 
high and dry, filled it with water, made a roaring fire and 
heated a lot of stones which had been brought to the isl- 
and for the purpose, and boiled the water to scald the 
pigs. How easy it is to do things if you know how! 
Fresh pork was cheap in those days, and I have seen 
where a hog had been killed and only one ham taken 
and the rest left in the woods, perhaps by some fellow 
who never paid his $i to "buy into a claim o' hogs." 

Once, while alone going down to the marshes with 
my rifle to get a duck or two for dinner, for it was the 
only gun I owned, I went a little way up the side of the 
blufif to get a view of the overflowed lands, and make a 
reconnoissance of the flocks of ducks and of such cover 
as might conceal an approach to them. I sat on a log 
to view the scene and recover some lost breath. It was 
early in the afternoon, and the log was so comfortable 
that I sat some time. Four half-grown foxes were play- 
ing in the leaves like kittens, and a move would have 
spoiled the show. Suddenly there was a shot close by 
and the foxes vanished; a pig squealed, an old hog 
grunted and a boy screamed. I jumped at the shot and 
started slowly to see who was shooting, but ran when I 
heard the boy. There he was on his back, and a big 
sow chewing his arm. Quicker than I can tell it I shot, 
and fortunately hit the hog in the eye and she dropped 
dead. Then I became excited at what might have hap- 
pened if I had missed the hog or killed the boy. He had 
fainted, and, having no water, I fanned him until he came 
to. His arm was badly torn, but no bones were broken, 
and the doctor soon had him repaired. A hog will 
charge a man any time if he makes a pig squeal, and then 
they are dangerous animals. On telling this pig scrape 



182 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

to Charley he showed me some great scars on his legs 
where he was bitten under similar circumstances, only 
that he seized a hanging limb and drew himself into a 
tree, and fortunately some strangers heard his yell and 
came to his rescue, or he would have bled to death. 

Charley Guyon inherited the taste of his countrymen 
for the violin, and he and another noted fiddler named 
Montpleasure had played with a travelling minstrel 
troupe which went up through Wisconsin and Iowa, and 
some of his experiences were laughable. Said he: "We 
struck a little town in northern Iowa just in time for a 
late supper and to get to the hall. The box of burnt 
cork couldn't be found, and there wasn't corks enough 
in the single hotel to make 'paste' for the troupe of ten. 
Yes, we had ten, all good men, too, if we did take in small 
towns; but what was to be done? The hall was filling, 
and we had small boys out looking for corks and coming 
back saying, 'Mother says she ain't got no corks,' or 
'Pap says he'll get you a cork ef you'll give him six 
tickets.' The hall was full and the people began to get 
uneasy, when in came the landlord to the dressing-room 
with four boxes of shoeblacking and asked if that 
wouldn't do. Charley French thought it would, and we 
wet it up, and used it and rushed on the stage. The 
overture went off well, and the opening chorus was half 
way through when the boys began to feel uncomfortable. 
The stufif had stiffened and we felt as if we were var- 
nished, and soon it began to peel off. Such looking nig- 
gers you never did see. We got laughing and the audi- 
ence roared; our tenor tried to sing 'Swanee River,' but 
it was uphill work; he looked like a darkey with the 
smallpox; we shook our sides, and the people screamed 
until he got mad and left the stage. It was well for us 
that it hit the audience as being funny, but we got 



CHARLES GUYON. 183 

through somehow, and as they wanted to dance we 
played for them until morning, after we washed up. 
They had never had such dance music, and they wanted 
us to promise to come again, which we did, and had a 
grand reception." 

Once when we were discussing the chances of sinking 
a shaft in a new place he burst out laughing. I waited 
to hear what the cause of this hilarity was, and as soon 
as he could pull himself together he tried to say, between 
shrieks: "Bones asked why this troupe of minstrels was 
like a gang of burglars which had been discovered. Ha, 
ha! ho, ho! — Oh, I can't tell it. But the answer was 
because we — he, he! Oh, my! — because — because we're 
spotted!" And then he couldn't stop. A roll on the 
ground and a kicking of heels was the only sedative, and 
it always got in its quieting work if no one started a 
laugh ; if they did it took longer. 

I think Charley never tired of this yarn, for he would 
laugh all the time until he cried; it was the great event 
in his uneventful life. 

He was as happy as that happy race, the French- 
Canadian, usually is — happy if it rained or if the day was 
bright ; happy in luck of any kind, if he had strings for his 
fiddle and rheumatism and the toothache kept away. In 
my sketch in Forest and Stream I presumed that he was 
dead. Judge Seaton has written me that Charley is still 
fiddling away in Highland, Iowa County, Wis., "happy 
as ever and vigorous." As this goes to the printer I am 
waiting for an answer from my old-time, honest and 
cheerful companion in the lead mines. 



CORPORAL HENRY R. NEAVILLE. 

A COON HUNT — FISHING THE "SLOOS" OF THE MISSIS- 
SIPPI. 

HENRY had the taste for observing the habits of 
beasts, birds and fishes which leads a man to 
study them, a taste which may, if not checked, 
cause him to count the fin-rays of a fish or the scales on 
the tarsus of a bird, and then inflict his fellow man with 
a monograph on fin-rays and scales. Henry never 
reached that stage, but loved the woods and waters just 
the same, and was a very quiet, companionable fellow of 
my own age. His father kept the only hotel in Potosi 
at that time, and Henry and his younger brother Frank 
were kept by the hotel. Few things troubled Henry; 
with him it was "always afternoon," and pleasant visions 
floated in his mind; yet he was not indifferent to the 
passage of time if aroused by something which interested 
him. In still-hunting deer he was tireless, and no 
amount of fatigue dulled his ardor. If, however, wood 
was to be cut for the house, Henry somehow never took 
an absorbing interest in it, and it soon turned out that 
Henry and I had many traits in common. 

We fished for crappies, another fish new to me, and 
one which I considered the best pan fish in the Missis- 
sippi. This is the fish, or brother of the one, called 
"strawberry bass" in western New York, and if my 
youthful judgment was correct it is a fish worthy of more 
attention from fish-culturists than it gets. There is a 
chance that my more mature palate would confirm the 
verdict of forty years ago, for I never did care to eat a 

184 



CORPORAL HENRY R. NEAVILLE. 185 

black bass if perch could be had, and residence by salt 
water has intensified this preference. My friend, Pro- 
fessor Jordan, says the crappie should be called Pomoxys, 
and in his "Manual of Vertebrates" g.ves what he thinks 
the word means in Greek; but I guess the name comes 
from the Latin Pomiim, fruit, for the crappie is, in the 
argot of the day, "a peach;" a few years ago it would 
have been "a daisy," and so in the process of evolution 
the fruit succeeds the flower. Darwin, "thou reasonest 
well!" 

A tree top was a favorite place to find the crappie and 
incidentally to lose fish-hooks. We used short rods, cut 
in the woods, but not over seven feet long, for fishing 
in the tree tops, and the crappies were flat as a pancake 
and sometimes a foot long. In a tree top if one of them 
was allowed a bit of line the angler was lucky if he saved 
the hook. They fought fairly well, too; of course, not 
to be compared to the fight of a black bass nor of some 
perch, but it was sport to take them. We strung the 
fish through the gills, and hung them in the water to 
keep alive. Once while pulling in my string to add 
another it pulled heavily, and a catfish, which looked 
to weigh ten pounds, came to the surface. It had 
swallowed one crappie, but let go when it saw us. Soon 
after this Henry put his hand in the water, and a big cat- 
fish seized it and tore the skin badly, causing him to 
make remarks calculated to hurt the feelings of all cat- 
fish which heard them. 

As my mining partner, Charley Guyon, never ob- 
jected to having a holiday, it happened that Henry and I 
fished frequently in the summer, and hunted for ducks, 
deer and other game in spring and fall. Shortly after 
Guyon's adventure with the buck Henry and I were fol- 
lowing deer up the Grant River, and I saw three of them 



186 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

cross to my side within easy shot. There was a buck and 
two does. As they came out of the water I dropped the 
buck, and hke an echo of my shot one of the does fell. 
Henry took off his clothes, and swam over and found me 
talking with a man about fifty years old, who had killed 
the doe. He proved to be a French-Canadian named 
Antoine Gardapee, with whom I struck up a friendship 
which will be related "in our next." He was a trapper, 
and like my old friend. Port Tyler, was a "character." 
We dressed our deer, and Henry and I swam the river 
with it and took turns with the heavy saddle wrapped in 
the skin and the lighter forequarters. 

Gardapee came to town with us and sold his veni- 
son. In those days many men threw away the fore- 
quarters of a deer. I asked Antoine to come to my 
house for dinner and he did, but he insisted that a rib 
chop out of a fat deer was the best portion, and we had 
them broiled. He was right, and to-day I follow his ad- 
vice when venison is in season and buy rib chops. He 
took a fancy to me because our tastes were in common 
and I had education enough to write his letters to his 
friends, and would talk to him on subjects in which he 
was interested. I looked up to him as a combined Port 
Tyler and Natty Bumpo rolled into one. It was a sort 
of love at first sight, or like that of Desdemona for 
Othello, of which he says : 

"She lov'd me for the dangers I had pass'd; 
And I lov'd her that she did pity them." 

Henry had that sense of humor which often accom- 
panies a poetic temperament and permits one to both 
enjoy a sentiment and to burlesque it at the same time. 
This is a possibility unknown to solemn souls who think 
burlesque or travesty irreverent or disrespectful, which 



CORPORAL HENRY R. NEAVILLE. 187 

it is not always intended to be. Byron had this faculty 
in perfection, and lets you down from a poetic flight with 
a d. s. thud. Shakespeare turns from heroic Hotspur 
to fat Jack FalstafT — and Henry Neaville, who had a 
considerable knowledge of Shakespeare, often para- 
phrased him. This is what called up the above quota- 
tion. Henry once said: 

"She lov'd me for the fishes that I caught, 
And I lov'd her that she did pickle them.'' 

Frank Neaville, Henry and I one summer day went 
fishing, and we rowed up against the current of Swift 
Sloo and around into more quiet waters, made fast to a 
tree top and dropped our lines. Tree tops in these 
waters were abundant where the freshets had washed the 
soil from the roots, and the tree toppled into the water, 
usually kept on growing, or at least in full leaf during 
the season, and afforded a good place to tie a boat and 
fish either among the branches or further out. A queer 
tapping noise came from the boat's bottom. I suspected 
Frank of making it, because he was full of tricks of that 
kind, but it kept up and he did not seem to be the 
cause. "Are there spirits among us seeking communi- 
cation with mortals?" I asked. 

"Yes," said Henry, "and I'll try to call that particular 
spirit from the vasty deep, and find out why he knocks 
on our boat." 

"He wants to come in," Frank explained, "and he's 
too polite to do it without knocking first." 

Henry put on a plump worm, took the little bullet 
which served for a sinker and let his line drift under the 
boat. In a short time it was evident that something was 
tugging at his line, and his little rod bent as the spirit, or 
whatever it was, struggled to get loose. Soon a large 



188 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

fish was pulled from under the boat, and made several 
kicks and splashes before it was flopping at our feet, 
showering water and scales. It was a "red-horse," and 
would weigh about two pounds, guess-weight. 

"Is that the cause of the spirit-like raps on our boat?" 

"Yesj he was sucking off snails and water worms. 
Did you never see 'em do it?" 

"No; never heard of such a thing before." 

"Here's another at it now; come over this side and 
you can see it. Come still, and don't rock the boat or 
you'll scare it." 

I went and saw about half of the fish extending 
beyond the boat. It was on its back, and its red fins 
looked bright against its white belly and straw-colored 
sides. At every tap on the boat a slight contraction of 
the body was observed as he sucked his food from the 
boards. Frank thought he could capture the fish with 
his hands and tried it, but had to fish his hat from the 
water instead. "Golly," said he, "that fish was quick. 
He jumped when I touched him, and slipped through my 
hand like an eel." After this the drumming of the red- 
horse was often heard, not only on the boat, but upon 
logs that were several feet from us. This sucker is the 
"mullet" or "red mullet" of western New York. It is 
eatable in cold weather if it is the best you can get. 

Henry threw the fish overboard, saying: "Might as 
well let it go; we never eat 'em in summer. I only 
hooked it for fun and to show you what made the tap- 
pings on the boat. Don't you have red-horse where 
you've fished? There! Look over on the bank of the 
sloo. Keep still, Frank; sh!" 

A queer-looking object was rolling about on the 
shore in a singular manner. It grew large and then 
small. Sometimes it was the size of a small cat, and then 



CORPORAL HENRY R. NEAVILLE. 189 

would increase until as big as an old Thomas. It 
twisted, rolled sideways and back until it reached the 
water, where it kicked up a great bobbery. 

"I'm durned if I know what that is," said Henry; "I 
never saw such an animal before. What do you think 
it is?" 

"It's a 'coon rolling in the dirt and then washing him- 
self off," said Frank. 

Henry sneeringly replied: "'Coon! yer granny! A 
'coon's got a big, bushy tail and is gray. Frank, you 
don't know a 'coon from Driesbach's pet leopard." 

By this time the splashing ceased, and one animal 
crawled out of the sloo dragging another. Henry and I 
said in chorus: "It's a mink!" So it was, but he had a 
muskrat with him, and musky was dead. Our exclama- 
tion startled the nnnk, and it jumped into the grass with 
its prey. I said to Henry: "That sight is worth more 
than all the fish we have caught and all the mineral 
Charley Guyon and I might have dug to-day, or for a 
week. I knew that mink were fond of muskrat meat, 
but a fellow might fish for a lifetime and never see a 
mink kill one." 

"What made the mink hurry ofif so?" asked Frank; 
"he wasn't in any hurry about killing the muskrat. I'd 
like to have seen him eat it." 

"Frank," said Henry, "that mink had several good 
reasons for hurrying ofif. It was dinner time, and Mrs. 
Mink and all the little minks were wondering why papa 
didn't come home from market with the dinner. Then 
Mr. Mink may have thought his family might mistrust 
that he was lingering at Sam Coons' bar, and would for- 
get to bring the dinner at all; but the chances are that 
when we spoke he looked over at us and thought: 'It's 
best to hurry home before that durned fool, Frank Nea- 



190 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

ville, asks me a whole mess of questions.' That's the 
reason he went off so suddenly. Frank, he took one 
look at you, and saw your mouth wide open, ready to ask 
him a question, and he sneaked." 

Frank looked at me and said: "Henry knows a heap 
o' things, but somehow nobody seems to realize it but 
himself. He knows just why that mink hurried off as 
well as I do, but he won't tell the truth. Now, I'll tell 
you why he skipped out. The mink was so interested 
in his fight that he did not notice us until Henry called 
out. Then he looked over here and said to himself: 
'There's that mean Henry Neaville, and he'll take my 
musquash if I don't get out. That fellow is mean 
enough to take acorns from a blind sow.' And so that 
mink, which would have been delighted to have eaten his 
dinner in decent company, sneaked off with it into the 
woods for fear he would be robbed." 

I had taken my rifle along because the boys thought 
it would be well to kill a pig on our return, and, as I 
had "bought into a claim o' hogs," we went ashore, and 
after some work among these very wild animals I got a 
shot and dropped a "likely shoat" that would dress about 
sixty pounds. After skinning the pig we laid it across 
the bow, and rowed around into Swift Sloo about sun- 
down. The strong current was taking us along toward 
home, when Frank saw a wounded pelican near the 
shore, and grabbed a tree top to hold the boat. Quicker 
than it can be told the sudden check in the swift current 
filled the boat, and it left us in the water. Henry was 
in the stern steering with one oar, and fortunately 
grabbed the painter and held on. Frank and I got out 
from the tree top and struck for the nearest shore. A 
bend hid the boat and Henry from sight by the time we 
landed, and then Frank began to cry: "Henry is 



CORPORAL HENRY R. NEAVILLE. 191 

drowned; I know he is, and all on account of my fool- 
ishness!" 

I consoled him as well as possible by saying that his 
brother was a good swimmer and must be on land below 
the bend, and then we heard his yell: "Yee-e-e hoo-ooo," 
and answered it. We went down to him, and found that 
the boat and one oar was all there was left, except the 
three strings of fish which were tied to the gunwale. 

"Well, we might as well go on home," said Frank. 

I thought a moment and said: "You boys can go if 
you like, but my rifle is in the sloo near the tree top, and 
I'm goin' to stay on this island and try to get it when 
morning comes." 

The boys decided to remain after I produced a little 
bottle of matches — a trick learned from my old precep- 
tor, Port Tyler. Said Port: "You don't never want to 
go a-shootin' nur a-fishin' with yer matches loose in yer 
pocket, nur in one o' them metal match boxes ; they leak, 
an' if ye get caught in a rain or tumble in the crick yer 
matches are all wet when ye want 'em most." The les- 
son had been firmly implanted by a neglect to follow it 
on one occasion, and here was proof of the wisdom of the 
old woodsman. At such a time, when wet, cold and 
hungry, one good match was worth a king's ransom, and 
I had it. Dead wood was plenty, and the little breeze 
which kept the mosquitoes from the open sloo was not 
felt in the underbrush. Before the fire we stripped and 
spread our clothing on poles cut for the purpose, and 
then — there is a dim remembrance of three fellows try- 
ing to keep their bodies in the smoke and their eyes out 
of it. 

This was a mosquito paradise — for them. For us 
the term might be reversed, and it would require the pen 
of Dante to describe the place. Still, most* readers of 



192 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

Forest and Stream have sat in smudges, and have won- 
dered whether it were nobler in the mind to suffer the 
stings and poisons of tormenting 'skeeters or by smudg- 
ing end them. "Smoke follows beauty," is the adage; 
but when sitting in a smudge of dry fungus we old cam- 
paigners know that we are not beautiful because the 
smoke dodges us. Sometimes it is a question whether 
the insects are not to be preferred to smarting eyes, but 
eventually the ayes have it, and more smudge is made. 

Our lunch was saved, and there was plenty of it — but 
the bread was soaked too much to use, the pies which 
Mrs. Neaville had put in the basket had disintegrated, 
and the ham and chicken had been eaten. We slapped 
mosquitoes and roasted fish and shifted to keep in the 
smoke. When the fish were cooked we ate supper. 

"Where's the salt?" asked Frank. 

Henry looked up and quietly said: "Frank, look in 
the basket; you'll find the salt tied up in a rag; bring us 
some;" and he never cracked a smile while his brother 
held up the soaked rag, looked at it and threw it down. 
"I never like salt on fish," said Henry; "it makes me 
think they're not fresh." Frank and I ate fresh fish and 
made no comment. After dinner Henry took his felt 
hat, and went to the sloo and brought it up full of water. 
Said he: "I always want a drink after a fish dinner, and 
of all drinks in this world there's nothing like Mississippi 
River water; it's rich — food and drink, too — and there's 
no better place to get it than from Swift Sloo. Boys, 
here's fun!" 

It was desirable to get our clothes on at the earliest 
moment, so that there would be a minimum of cuticle 
exposed to the enemy, and after dressing we could dry 
the garments from the inside as well as by the fire ; so we 
dressed and dragged the boat ashore, turned it over and 



CORPORAL HENRY R. NEAVILLE. 193 

slept the sleep of the just under it, leaving the hordes of 
mosquitoes to sing us a lullaby on the outside, while only 
a few of them found entrance from the ground. 

Frank said: "I've had enough of this, and I'm going 
to get up !" And it was morning — broad daylight. The 
dawn had been obscured by the heavy timber and the 
overturned boat. A breakfast which somehow was much 
like the supper, in the presence of fresh fish and the 
absence of salt and everything else, was satisfactory to all 
but Frank. He said: "If I only had a cup of coffee I 
wouldn't care." 

"Frank," I replied, "you are not an epicure. There 
is no more delicious breakfast known than roasted crap- 
pie cooked without salt and washed down with water 
from Swift Sloo. Your palate is not educated; coffee 
just now — hot coffee, I mean — would spoil the combina- 
tion; you don't want coffee, nor anything else." 

"Coffee!" exclaimed Henry, "why, coffee would spoil 
the taste of those delicate crappies, which all epicures eat 
without salt." And then he added: "Coffee would queer 
the whole show," a remark which made me ask if he had 
gone off with Charley Guyon, Montpleasure and the 
others on their trip into Iowa, and he admitted that he 
had been the treasurer of the troupe. How little things 
serve to show what will "queer" a larger thing! I asked: 
"Henry, what was it that 'queered' our trip?" And he 
simply answered: "Frank." 

Don't think that Frank was any sort of a "hoodoo" 
because we guyed him in this way. He was a good, 
honest boy, but had no taste for camp life — hunting, fish- 
ing and mosquitoes. He afforded plenty of sport to his 
brother and I because he was green at these things. He 
wanted to know what there was interesting in seeing a 
mink kill a muskrat. 



194 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

Henry replied: "Why, you bloomin' idiot, you might 
live in the woods for fifty years and never see such a 
thing but once." 

"Well," drawled Frank, "after you've seen it what 
does it amount to? You knew that mink killed musk- 
rats, and what more is there to it?" 

Henry was dazed at this practical question, and no 
one replied to Frank. What could you say? If a man 
has no liking for a thing, what can be said to prove that 
he ought to like it? We could only feel sorry for a fel- 
low who had no care to observe animals in a state of 
nature when they were unaware of the presence of man. 
If a man doesn't care for literature, science or art, there's 
no use talking to him about them. This may be illus- 
trated by the following story: Two fellows had journeyed 
from New York to see Niagara Falls, of which they had 
heard much. As they came in sight of the mighty cat- 
aract one said: "There, Jim! them's the falls!" The 
other asked: "Is them the falls?" and added: "Them's 
nice falls; now let's go and get some beer." That, I 
think, puts the case fairly — perhaps as strongly as that of 
"casting pearls before swine," but not in such an ofifen- 
sive manner. If Henry Neaville was alive to-day he 
would spend a week to see that solitary animal — a mink 
— capture and kill his prey in the manner one did when 
we were fishing near Swift Sloo. Frank had no interest 
in such things. 

We cut a stif¥ pole, and with our remaining oar poled 
and paddled back to the tree top where Frank capsized 
the boat in order to look at the wounded pelican. After 
a survey of the bottom we found the spot where the rifle 
lay, and I undressed and brought it up at the first dive, 
for the water was not more than six feet deep; there was 
no mud to cover the gun in the swift water, and it lay 



CORPORAL HENRY R. NEAVILLE. 195 

within three feet of where the boat upset. We then saw 
where a board had lodged in the last freshet, and as our 
loose seats were gone I proposed to replace them with 
the board. 

"But you have no saw. How are you going to cut 
that board to make two seats?" asked Frank. 

I showed him how to cut a board off square with a 
pocket knife by taking the measure and following the 
mark with the point of the knife. Then slightly bending 
the board at the mark and drawing the knife in the cut, 
taking care not to bend it too much, the fibres separated 
with a snap under the point of the knife, and we had two 
seats with ends as square as if sawed. It was done so 
quickly that he was surprised, and I showed him how a 
small tree could be cut by a sharp-pointed knife if the 
tree could be bent so as to strain the fibres, and he very 
ungrammatically remarked: "Well, I'm be blowed!" 

Henry Neaville was one of those rare fellows who are 
charming companions in camp — one of those cheerful 
men who never grumble, no matter what happens. It 
might rain, and wet him to the skin when there was no 
chance to make a fire; he might lose his fishing tackle 
when no more could be had, and he would joke about it. 
He would be happy when it was a choice between being 
eaten alive by mosquitoes or being smothered and 
blinded by smoke. Mark Tapley could not have been 
jollier under adverse circumstances than was Henry 
Neaville. I was with him a year and a half later in camp 
in northern Minnesota with a surveying party, and saw 
him come in with both feet frozen so badly that I feared 
amputation might be necessary, and as I dressed his feet 
afterward, when they were swollen almost to bursting, 
he said: "If you should have to cut these feet off just box 
'em up, and send 'em back to Potosi and write father to 



196 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

tell the girls that I'm not dancing this winter." That I 
loved such a cheerful companion is not strange; any 
sportsman would have taken him to his heart, for if there 
is a disagreeable quality in a man it will show itself in 
camp. If he is cranky, cross or grumbly it will come out 
in time, and if he is a hog who will take the choice corner 
of the tent every time, or the best fish in pan, it is soon 
known, and right here let me say I have met many such 
men who seemed to think that no one was wet and cold 
but themselves, nobody tired and hungry except their 
own carcasses; one trip with them is always enough. 
They are the fellows who will shoot across you at your 
birds, throw out their lines alongside yours if they see 
you have a nibble, and in many ways, beside bragging of 
their personal prowess, make themselves disagreeable. 
You've all met 'em and dropped 'em. I will tell you 
more about Henry later. 

We drifted down Swift Sloo,and poled and paddled to 
the landing, made the boat fast, and marched through the 
partly deserted villages of Lafayette and Van Buren 
to picturesque Potosi, Mr. Kaltenbach, who had been 
postmaster for some twenty years then and who recently 
died in office, the oldest postmaster known to the ser- 
vice, hailed us with: "Hello, boys! Did you get so 
many fish that you couldn't carry 'em?" But Henry 
told him that several wagons were on the way with our 
catch. John Nicholas and Bill Patterson wanted to 
know if we forgot to spit on our bait, but they got no 
reply. We had enjoyed the trip — that is, Henry and I 
did — it was not certain about Frank, and it was useless 
to try to explain it to people who measure your fun by 
the amount of game brought back — a most false meas- 
ure, and one that should come under the supervision of 
the State "sealer of weights and measures." 



CORPORAL HENRY R. NEAVILLE. 197 

In the fall Pete Loeser, who, you will remember, came 
from Albany with me, sent an invitation to go up some 
fifteen miles to Fenimore Grove and shoot prairie 
chickens. Henry went along, and was enthusiastic 
about the sport, which could not be had in the heavily 
timbered district near Potosi. We met Pete and he said: 
"The tay vos yust ride, und dere was t'ousands of bra'rie 
shickens in de wheat stubble und de cornfields." We 
were elated. 

We had no dog, but we spread out at proper distances 
to take in cross shots without interference, and walked 
the birds up. The ease with which they were dropped 
surprised me after being wrought up by Henry's ex- 
travagant talk. On our return with big bags of this fine 
bird, Henry asked what I thought of the sport, and I 
summed it up in about this style: "Henry, the prairie 
chicken is a fine large bird and a good game bird, but as 
a bird to shoot it is easier than the little quail; it flies in 
the open, and in such a way that a duffer could hardly 
miss it if within range. It doesn't compare with wood- 
cock shooting in a thicket as a test of skill, and as for 
partridge, I tell you that there is a feeling of triumph in 
downing a wary old bird, which starts like a rocket and 
puts a tree between you and himself before he has gone 
ten feet, if the tree is there, that the killing of one hun- 
dred prairie chickens cannot equal. Come with me 
some day and try them back of the river bluflfs toward 
Cassville, and if you don't agree with me when we return 
I'll eat my hat." 

Since that day I have shot prairie chickens in Kansas 
and in other States, and still adhere to my opinion con- 
cerning the merits of the two birds from the standpoint 
of a sportsman whose object is to bag a difficult bird 
regardless of whether he gets two or twenty. For the 



198 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

table I prefer the dark-meated prairie fowl, but that is 
another question. Also I would say that up to that time 
I had never seen nor heard of the practice of treeing 
partridges with a dog. It is only in sparsely settled dis- 
tricts where this can be done, and it was many years after 
that I had practical knowledge of this method of shoot- 
ing. About the thickly settled districts of New York, 
where I learned to shoot, the ruffed grouse would never 
take to a tree for a yelping spaniel; they crouched for a 
spring at the approach of a man or dog, and often the 
thunder of their wings was the first intimation the gun- 
ner had of their presence, and he was lucky if he could 
flesh his shot before the swift bird had put a tree between 
them. It was largely snap shooting, and, as I have said, 
the feeling of triumph in dropping one under such con- 
ditions was great, and there were men in that day and 
there are men to-day who will agree to every word of 
this. At the risk of calling down a host of antagonists 
who will go for my scalp, I will say that the grandest 
game bird of America is the ruffed grouse, called "par- 
tridge" in New York and New England, and "pheasant" 
in Pennsylvania and the South. The wild turkey is a 
wary bird, and carries more meat about his person; but 
an experience in shooting both makes me put the turkey 
in the second place. 

This talk has led me from Henry Neaville, whom I 
wanted you to know, but a vagabond pen wandered from 
the subject. I will tell you something of him later on, 
for he and I joined a party of Government surveyors a 
year later that explored a portion of northern Minnesota; 
but before we get to that I must, in the natural order of 
events, tell you about a winter spent in trapping for fur 
with Antoine Gardapee, whom you met in the first part 
of this article. Henry was my intimate companion on 



CORPORAL HENRY R, NEAVILLE. 199 

the surveying trip and afterward; we had so much in 
common that we could not keep apart if we had tried. 

In gathering information about my old-time friends I 
was pleased to find that Hon. J. W. Seaton is still living 
in Potosi. During the time of which I write he pub- 
lished a weekly paper there, and was afterward a member 
of the State Senate for several terms. He writes me as 
follows: "BiH Patterson is living at Portland, Ore. All 
your other friends are dead except Thomas Davies, who 
went with you on the surveying trip. Henry and Frank 
Neaville went out with Company C, Second Wisconsin 
Infantry, afterward part of the famous 'Iron Brigade.' 
Henry was made a corporal, and Frank was first ser- 
geant. Frank was killed at Bull Run August 28, 1862, 
and Hf nry was killed at Antietam nineteen days later." 

"The neighing troop, the flashing blade, 

The bugle's stirring blast. 
The charge, the dreadful cannonade, 

The din and shout are past; 
Nor war's wild note, nor glory's peal, 

Shall thrill with fierce delight 
Those breasts that never more may feel 

The rapture of the light." 



ANTOINE GARDAPEE. 



IN THREE CANTOS. 



CANTO I. — TRAPPING FUR — KILLING A WOLVERINE. 

IT is possible that there may be another way to spell 
this name. Antoine never spelled it, but then he 
couldn't spell any other word; so we just take it as 
it sounded. After the time when he killed the doe that 
was with my buck we often met. Early in October I 
dropped into his cabin, and found him overhauling a lot 
of steel traps, putting in a rivet here and there, filing the 
catch to hold the pan stififer, or to make it go off easier, 
as seemed best. His back was to the open door, and I 
watched him a few minutes before announcing my pres- 
ence by knocking on the door frame of his little log 
shanty. He whirled around on the box which served 
as a bench and said: "Come in! You jess a man I want 
for see. Whar you be'n so long tarn? I was go for look 
you up." 

"I've been working hard for the past week, and have 
not been up the river until to-day, when my partner, 
Guy on, wanted a day ofif; so I thought I'd drift over your 
way and see if I couldn't get a deer, but haven't seen any 
fresh sign this morning. About a mile down the river a 
big flock of geese got up and came over my head very 
low, and if I had had a shotgun I might have got three 
or four, they were so thick ; but here's one that dropped." 

"You don' eat heem, he's a t'ousan' year ol'; look a 

200 



ANTOINE GARDAPEE. 201 

here," and he tried to tear the skin under its wing with 
no effect. "I'll tole you; give a-heem to ol' Miss'r 
Knight; he's tough, too. How much a-mineral Charley 
an' you clean up dis a-week?" 

"Oh, we had a big week, and cleaned up about fifteen 
hundred. Why?" 

"Yas, all drif ; nex' week you don' get noding, hey?" 

"Perhaps so, but that's miner's luck; we can't expect 
to get as much every time. It's the biggest week we've 
had, and only five days at that." 

"You like-a dat work — no?" 

"No, I don't Hke it; but it helps a fellow to live." 

"I tole you. You go 'long o' me dis winta an' trap. 
You haf good time an' make more dan dig fur de lead. 
I no dig fur lead." 

And so it happened. He was getting ready to spend 
the winter in the wilds of the Bad Ax country to trap. 
After hearing his scheme I agreed to go with him, and 
we started in to get ready. He had all the steel traps 
necessary for small animals, and was an expert at making 
dead-falls for the larger ones. We drifted down to Du- 
buque, where we put our boat and other things on a 
steamer for Prairie du Chien. From that place we took 
a supply of provisions, mainly of flour, coffee and sugar, 
for Antoine said we would not need pork nor lard be- 
cause we could get fat from coons, ducks and perhaps 
other animals. Our outfit was simple, but it loaded our 
boat, and two heavy tarpaulins protected the provisions. 
It was a hard pull up the Wisconsin River, some twenty 
miles, to the mouth of the Bad Ax River, but we took 
it easy, and the second night we camped a mile or so up 
the Bad Ax. This camp is memorable because of a 
storm which wet us to the skin, but the provisions and 
the ammunition were kept dry. 



202 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

We went on up the little river some fifty miles, more 
or less, hauling over or around falls, when we hid our 
boat and a portion of the provisions and started on foot 
to some spot which Antoine seemed familiar with, for he 
had been over the ground before. The way he stored 
the provisions was curious. After dragging the boat 
back from the river we hung it bottom side up between 
two trees, and then put out lines from each side to pre- 
vent it turning over. Then we cut poles and made a 
shelf on the seats, covered these with a tarpaulin and 
stored our provisions in the boat. 

''Now," said Antoine, "Miss'r Bear, Miss'r Coon and 
Miss'r Mouse, you doan git no flour and you doan git no 
sugar, an', Miss'r Rain, you doan spile noding." 

We took our rifles, a frying pan, axe and some flour, 
cofifee and salt, and started up the river into Bad Ax 
county, which some man with no regard for historic 
names has had re-christened "Vernon county," a change 
that destroys the individuality of the county, for there 
might be forty Vernon counties in the United States, but 
there would be only one having the old name, which 
savors of the settlement of the region by the whites and 
had the merit of being unique. I have no idea how the 
old name came to the river and afterward the county, 
but will predict that some man with a little poetry in his 
soul and a love for originality will arise and have the his- 
toric and beautiful — I say beautiful advisedly — name of 
"Bad Ax" restored to the county. I really don't know 
if the river has been renamed, but hope not. 

We selected our camping spot some few miles above 
the fork of the river, on the east branch, where several 
small streams came in. There are, no doubt, names for 
all these now; we had no map and no name for anything 
but the main river, yet we named them for our own pur- 



ANTOINE GARDAPEE. 203 

poses; that was necessary in order to be understood, and 
I elaborated a map on my powder horn which showed 
all the streams, swamps and hills to the best of my ability. 
This horn was left in Potosi, as of no further use. Just 
what I would give to see it hanging on a wall of my den 
to-day I cannot say. We measure the things of the mo- 
ment by their utility or their cash value, but those of the 
past which formed a part of our lives become treasures 
beyond price when they serve as links to connect us with 
a time far removed. A sword that was "held by the 
enemy" for over a quarter of a century is on my wall. It 
may be sold for old junk, but not before I am put to bed 
with a spade and sodded over. 

Let's see; we were talking about an old powder horn. 
It cost only the time to bore out the tip, fit the bottom 
and to polish the thing — a mere nothing — but it's so easy 
to get off the track. I was only going to say to the boys 
of to-day: Never throw away anything that you can 
keep. A trifling thing becomes priceless after forty 
years have passed. That's all! 

When the old trapper threw down his load and said, 
"We make here our house," his partner, who had begun 
to think that there was no end to the journey, rejoiced. 
On a little knoll we laid the foundation for the cabin. 
Antoine was one of those men who are so handy with an 
axe that you wouldn't be surprised to see a clock made by 
him with that tool alone, and he measured and notched 
the logs and showed me how to put the small ends, that 
made the sides, to the rear, and so help the slant of the 
roof. He split the long three-foot shingles, a few 
"puncheons" for part of a floor, on which we slept, and 
also for the door frames and the door. We chinked the 
logs, and plastered them with clay mixed with coarse 
grass, made a fireplace and stone chimney, and then 



204 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

we were in a ten-by-twelve cabin, with a shed roof kept 
in place by weight poles. A stone oven was made in the 
fireplace, where we could not only bake bread, raised 
with cream o' tartar and soda, but could also roast a 
goose or a venison ham. 

Not until we began to build our camp would the old 
man let me kill a deer, although we saw plenty of them, 
because he said that we could not carry any part of it; 
so we had lived on partridges, rabbits and a coon on the 
journey, and a change to venison was good. The bed 
was made with hemlock boughs on the puncheons, and 
covered with a tarpaulin and blankets. A swinging 
shelf was made to hold the remaining provisions secure 
from rats or other intruders, and we started down stream 
for supplies, taking only one rifle, an axe and enough 
salt, matches, etc., to last a week, for we had been three 
days going up from the place where the boat was left. 
After a two days' tramp we found our provisions as we 
had left them, and loaded up again and started for camp. 
Just how it happened, no one knows; my rifle had only 
one trigger, and that could be "set" by pushing it for- 
ward, and the "set" was so light that a breath would al- 
most let it off. Of course it could be used without the 
"set," and then it took about a two-pound pull to let it go. 
I had started ahead, and in my pack was the frying-pan, 
which projected over my shoulder alongside my head. 
Suddenly a shot startled me close to my ear, and on look- 
ing around at Antoine he said: "What for he go so easy? 
I t'ought I kill one pa-tridge on de tree yonder, an' I on'y 
make a hole in dat fry-pan; de t'ing go off too quick, an' 
mos' kill you, hey?" 

The grouse had not stirred, and I loaded the rifle, 
showed Antoine how a single trigger could be set to a 
"hair," and he picked the head off the partridge, saying; 



ANTOINE GARDAPEE. 205 

"Ba gosh! he go so easy as a gun wit' two trigger; I doan 
on'stan dat." He learned the trick, and after beating 
down the edges of the hole in the frying-pan and putting 
in one of the trap rivets and battering it down with the 
poll oi the axe we went on. It took four trips to get all 
our plunder from the boat to the camp, and the snows 
had fallen before the last one was made, and our snow- 
shoes were worn instead of being carried, for without 
them we would have been there until spring, for the snow 
was two feet deep and still falling when we reached our 
cabin. To our surprise there was smoke coming from 
the chimney, and when we opened the door there was an 
Indian cooking a rabbit by the fire. 

He arose, shook hands with Antoine and then with 
me, and the Frenchman and he sat down and talked in 
the Ojibwa tongue for a while, and then my friend ex- 
plained the matter in this way: The red man was an old 
acquaintance who had found our camp and entered, as 
was their custom; he knew Antoine's rifle, saw that the 
camp was new, and waited for our return. He tapped 
his breast and said to me, "Nidgee," which I understood 
to be his name, and so called him, although I afterward 
learned that the word meant simply "friend." 

It is difficult to get at the way these Indian words 
should be spelt; for instance, they call themselves O-jib- 
wah, and the white man first twists it into Ojibway 
and then into "Chippeway." The word which I spell 
"Nidgee" is sometimes given as "Nitchee," and so it 
goes ; it's a question of how it sounds and how it may be 
twisted at second hand. When I was among them they 
pronounced the tribal name with an almost impercep- 
tible "O," and the accent on the second syllable, as given 
above. Our red friend came and went at intervals all 
winter, never saying a word at leaving and only giving a 



206 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

salutatory grunt on arriving. Antoine explained that his 
friend's name was Ah-se-bun, or Raccoon, and that he 
was a good man to know; I gave him a big plug of to- 
bacco, and we were friends. 

After getting the cabin well fixed for the winter we 
started to put out a line of traps up a branch of the little 
stream, which was to be my line. We were gone three 
days, and had good dry weather, covered about thirty 
miles in all — fifteen up one stream, then over a divide 
and down another, which came into the first one near our 
shanty — but we set about forty steel traps of different 
sizes, for otter near falls and rapids, for mink under tree 
roots and other covered places, and for "black cat," pine 
marten and ermine in their haunts. We made many 
dead-falls for some of these animals where it was possible 
to drive stakes or arrange them on stumps, and for these 
we carried bait of venison and fish. This was my first 
three days on snowshoes, and the weight of them, added 
to the unusual gait which they require, made some mus- 
cles that had not been used to a loping gait very sore. 
But the truth came out when we reached the cabin and 
hung the snowshoes up, for Antoine asked: "You tired, 
hey? I t'ink t'ree day' on snowshoe' pooty good fur fust 
time; he make me sore fust, but, like de skate, you git 
used to dat kine, an' bime-by you t'ink de snowshoe de 
best fur de walk. Jess so me w'en I be in de wood all 
winter. W'at you say, hey? S'pose we res' two, t'ree 
day' an' fish, den I go put my line o' trap an' you run 
yours; what you say, hey?" 

"Well, Antoine, I do feel tired in my legs, and if you 
are tired, too, I'll do just as you say. We'll fish a day or 
two, and get a change of feed, and then you go and lay 
out your line and I'll run over mine." 

This put it in such shape that the tired feeling was 



ANTOINE GARDAPEE. 207 

mutual, as indeed it was, for the first skating or snow- 
shoeing of the season strains muscles in an unusual 
way. And we rested and fished. We used bits of veni- 
son for bait, and laid in a stock of trout and some other 
small fish, which we stored in the snow when frozen. 

A portion of a deer had been hung on the north side 
of the cabin, and it had been torn and picked in a way 
that neither dogs, wolves nor bears could nor would have 
mutilated it, because the tearing had been done from the 
upper side. I called my partner's attention to it, and 
suggested that ravens had found us out. 

He looked at the meat and said: "Miss'r Raven he 
doan lak come near shanty, but dem mis'able meat hawk 
he come an' take de meat out yo' mouf. I hate dat cuss, 
de meanes' bird in de wood, 'cause he no 'fraid. You 
keep a' eye out an' see how I fix him wid a flip." 

I saw the bird the same day. It was the "Canada 
jay," "meat hawk," "whiskey jack," etc., a relative of our 
bluejay, but not so noisy. As I have since known this 
Northern bird on its extreme Southern limit in winter, 
in Michigan and Minnesota, it is of an ashy gray color, 
with black and white markings, and so unfamiliar with 
man as to be impudent, and therefore very interesting. 
This is all very well when a bird visits you in a winter 
camp where birds are scarce, and one drops down by 
your feet, hops around and swipes a venison chop or a 
fish which has been laid out ready for the pan; but when 
it invites all its sisters, its cousins and its aunts to a feast 
on a saddle of venison, which you have left out for safe- 
keeping entirely for your own purposes, the familiarity 
of the bird breeds a feeling which differs from contempt. 
Somewhere back in memory the word "flip" seemed con- 
nected with some sort of a beverage, and I imagined that 
Antoine intended to give "whiskey jack" a drink that 



208 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

would paralyze him; that was a natural conclusion, al- 
though we had no whiskey. 

"I tell you; come see me fix de flip; he come here for 
heat my meat an' he'll get de flip; I fix him." He re- 
moved the chinking from between the logs for a foot, 
and ran out a long shingle and put a piece of meat on the 
outer end. Soon the enemy alighted on the shingle, 
when down came the axe on its inside end, and a dead 
"meat hawk" was tossed in the air. "I tole you he got 
de flip — he want no more, an' now all hees brudder got 
to get de flip, an' den we got no trouble no mo'." Dur- 
ing our three days' rest we killed about twenty with the 
"flip," and went our rounds of traps knowing that there 
were a few less meat hawks to prey upon our stores. 

I stayed in camp alone for three days after our rest, 
while Antoine went over his line and set his traps. The 
first trip was the greatest labor of all, for it involved 
selecting places and building dead-falls, but I was get- 
ting my tired muscles into condition by a rest which was 
merely a change of occupation. The rifle was to be 
cleaned and oiled; knives were to be sharpened; wood 
to be cut; bullets to be moulded from bar lead, and other 
things to be done, besides cooking and washing under- 
clothing. 

While fishing in the stream on the third day after An- 
toine left, there suddenly appeared seven Indians, in com- 
pany with my friend Ah-se-bun. None of them could 
or would speak English, and after a repetition of the 
word "Tah-so-je-ge" and some gesticulation I began to 
understand that they were asking for Antoine. Later I 
learned that "je-ge" meant "he who does," and that "tah- 
so" referred to traps. As I gradually picked up some 
of their words and tried to use them, I often began a 
sentence to Antoine with "Nidgee Tah-so-je-ge^ would 



ANTOINE GARDAPEB. 209 

you like fish or venison?" etc. That day when I was 
lound fishing my red friend had named me "Kego-e- 
kay," or he who fishes, and I arranged with Antoine to 
always use the native tongue when possible; and before 
spring it was our common camp talk, he helping me over 
the hummocks. I entertained our red friends as well as 
possible, and their appetites were enormous. Antoine 
had fully informed me on all the points of O jib way eti- 
quette, and when I ofifered tobacco the exact amount 
was cut off and handed to each individual, or he would 
have considered that the whole plug was given him; and 
the same circumspection was necessary when a loaf of 
bread was cut. 

I tried to get our visitors to follow Antoine's trail and 
meet him, as the prospect of feeding eight hungry In- 
dians was not pleasant, but they waited. I had two 
loaves of bread; one for me to take next morning when 
I ran my line, and one for supper when Antoine came. 
A venison ham was boiling in the fireplace to have for 
supper and breakfast, and to keep me three days if neces- 
sary; but when I got ready to set it out to our guests 
Antoine came in. There was a grunting salutation, and 
then Antoine said: "I don't bin hungry, but ba gosh if 
I'll bin starve ; it was good I come now 'fore dey heat all 
dat grub we got. You don't know w'at happetite dey 
got, I'll tole you." And I certainly didn't know. An- 
toine first cut bread and meat for himself and me, and 
then divided the rest into eight portions, which were 
hardly chewed, and had disappeared before we had fairly 
begun. 

Antoine then told me: "Dey ha'n't had half plenty, 
but dey all say 'nish-ish-shin;' dat means 'good.' We 
doan got much meat, on'y for you t'ree day, an' I doan 
cook no more." 



210 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

A smoke followed, and then it transpired, as Antoine 
translated it, that one of their friends had somehow 
broken his leg, and they wanted him to go and set it. 
The distance to their camp was only five miles, and if I 
didn't mind he would go at once. It seems that he had 
a reputation for surgery among these people, and I had 
three good reasons for wishing him to start immediately. 
Of course the humanity of fixing the man's leg was one 
reason; keeping on good terms with men who could rob 
and destroy our traps and drive us out of the country 
was another, and I fear that the third was a desire to get 
rid of guests who would devour our stores and breed a 
famine was as strong a reason as the other two. 

After the exodus I cooked a partridge and some veni- 
son chops to take on the line, baked two more loaves of 
bread, and had the kettle boiling to make cofifee when 
Antoine should return. A light rain the night before 
had made a crust upon the snow and snowshoes were not 
needed. It was long after dark when his step was heard 
crunching in the crust, and in he walked with his rifle 
and a coon. I told him that it was well that he had the 
coon, for I had cooked all the meat in sight, and there 
was only enough for our supper and for me to take on 
my trip. There were fish enough for breakfast, and now 
there was coon fat enough to fry them in. In the words 
of that old hunting song of Mr. Raynor's: "Why should 
the hunter lack?" 

Antoine said: "Dat make no difif'. Wen I'll got 
hunger I'll catch de feesh or I'll kill a deer or pa'tridge, 
or I'll go hunger. It makes no difif', I'll come along, 
you doan min' me, no." 

After supper we smoked in silence. I had said all 
that could be said about the camp larder in order that 
he might not put off replenishing it before he got hun- 



ANTOINE GARDAPEE. 211 

giy, and was anxious to know all about the broken leg' 
and why so many Indians were so close to us. Not a 
question would I ask of the old man. He would tell it 
all in his own way if left alone, and would be better satis- 
fied to do it in that way. We sat in front of the log- fire 
on three-legged stools which his axe had fashioned, and 
smoked in silence until he said: "Han' me that plug 
tobac." I passed him the tobacco, and he slowly sliced 
a pipeful, ground it in his palms, filled his pipe and 
lighted it with a sliver from a dry pine stick. I emptied 
my pipe and followed suit. As he contemplated the 
smoke curl up and mingle with that of the fire, he re- 
moved the pipe and said: "Dese Injun jess lak w'ite man, 
some smart an' some tam fool." He was thawing out, 
and to assist the process I kept silent and let him go on 
thinking until he got ready to tell as much as he wished. 
After a few more pufifs he said : "De big fella dat was 
here, hees name was 'She-kog,' an' dat mean de skunk; 
but he ain't got no sense like a skunk. All dese men dey 
go on up on a Flambeau riv', dey no stay on a Bad Ax 
riv, an' She-kog he go fur to break a stick an' hit O-ge- 
ma, the head man, an' broke his bone in his O-bwam, 
w'at you call dat bone here?" indicating his thigh. 
"Well, when I foun' ole O-ge-ma he say 'ugh'* an' I feel 
hees laig. Sho 'nufif she was broke. I get some wood 
f'um dry pine an' make splits an' tear up blanket, an' den 
I take hees foot in bote ban's an' put ma foot in hees 
crotch an' I pull lak de dev' till bones slip togedder an' I 
feel 'em all rite. Den de woman win' hees laig in 
blanket, an' I put on some split wood an' more blanket 
an' hees laig it get all rite. Dey go 'way in mornin' an' 
carry O-ge-ma 'longside. Gimme dat tobac." 

*This Indian salutation has been Anglicized into "how," and further 
polluted into "here's how." 



212 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

In the morning I started to run my line. Two days 
would do it easily if the weather was good, but rations 
for three was a wise provision. A rifle and ammunition 
for a dozen shots was also needed. Matches in a vial, 
blankets, some strong twine and a belt axe completed 
the outfit, except the snowshoes, which were slung on 
the back in case of need, for the crust might soften or 
fresh snow might fall, and snowshoes were now in the 
same category as the traditional pistol in Texas. This 
made a fairly good load for a novice, and it was increased 
by several skins before noon. 

Night came; and as I ate supper by a little fire and 
crawled under my blankets with my feet to the fire and 
the upper half of my body in the hollow of a big tree 
there came a sense of loneliness that is indescribable. 
Perhaps there was some fear, but as near as I can recall 
it the main feeling was one of helplessness. The night 
was still, cold and clear. The stars shone through the 
top of the leafless, hardwood trees. I looked over the 
rifle. It was a big and tolerably accurate one; the cap 
was sound and — "Pshaw!" I thought, "a man armed as I 
am is the most dangerous animal in these woods; now 
go to sleep." That was truly philosophical, but — philos- 
ophy and sleep are not identical. Not a twig or an 
acorn dropped within hearing that escaped my over- 
sensitive ear. The fire was replenished several times, 
and it seemed as if day would never come. 

If I lost consciousness for a moment that night it 
must have been the briefest of moments. Camping out 
with Port Tyler and the boys was one thing, but this was 
another. Every owl that ventured a remark seemed to 
be making reference to me. If a rabbit ran on the hard 
snow and cracked his joints as a call or challenge I heard 
it — but then the fact is I was not sleepy. No man can 



ANTOINE GARDAPEE. 213 

sleep when he isn't sleepy; there's nothing queer in that. 
Near daylight I was startled by the tramp of some 
animal, and I sat up and listened. The sound came 
from the stream below, which glinted in the starlight, 
and I made out a moving form going down stream. I 
thought it must be a bear, and if I could kill it then life 
would be worth living, if only to tell of it. I stood up 
in the hollow of' the great tree, and tried to get the rifle 
sights in line with the animal's forequarters, but the dif- 
fused light from snow and stars made it seem impossible 
to tell where the gun was sighted. The thing stopped; 
it had probably scented my camp, and partly at random 
I fired. A mingled cry and growl, a floundering in the 
snow and a hasty reloading of the rifle followed. On 
reaching the spot, not more than fifty yards distant, blood 
could be seen on the snow and I followed. Morning 
was visible in the east, and by the time the sun was up 
I had run down my game, which was weak from copious 
bleeding. It turned at bay. It was not a bear, but what 
could it be? It made a feeble charge on me, which I 
dodged, and then dropped it with a bullet in the head. 
Now that it was dead I had no idea what it could be. 
Of lions, tigers, elephants and other animals of Asia and 
Africa I had knowledge, but here was a beast in an 
American forest of which I had never heard nor read of in 
my school books. It was bear-like, but not a bear. Its 
body was heavy; its legs thick and clumsy; its tail bushy, 
and it had a round head with eyes wide apart. The hair 
was shaggy and thick, the color being almost black, with 
a light stripe along the sides which met at the insertion 
of the tail. It was about three feet long, and might have 
weighed 150 pounds. This is how I remember it, and 
under such circumstances a young fellow with tastes of 
the naturalist notes such iiings. I skinned the beast, 



214 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

and the smell of the meat said plainly that whatever this 
thing- may be I would starve before I would eat it. It 
was an odor like that of mink, weasels and other beasts 
of prey, or rather, those which live on flesh exclusively — 
for the flesh of the bear, coon, hog and other omnivora 
has no such smell. One hindleg had been broken and 
the other injured — a most fortunate shot in the uncer- 
tain light, and one of pure and unadulterated luck. 

After a toilet in the brook and a good breakfast — 
such a breakfast as only one with an appetite such as I 
had, after the morning's work, can appreciate — I crossed 
the divide, and struck the other stream, which led home- 
ward; yes, that's the word; it was home now. Soon I 
came to a dead-fall which had been wrecked; the back of 
it had been broken into and the bait taken, I thought 
that some animal had approached it from the rear, and 
in ignorance that the other side was open and that the 
trigger held a hospitable log, which would induce him to 
remain by falling and breaking his back, had considered 
that the only way to get at the desired bait was to break 
in from the side he first came to. After finding a dozen 
or more dead-falls entered in the same manner I began 
thinking. The more I thought of the matter the further 
I was from any conclusion. The crust on the snow was 
now too hard to show any tracks except of deer, whose 
small hoofs cut through it and often left bloody marks 
where the crust had retaliated. 

When I reached camp, Antoine had just finished his 
laundry work and was hanging it up. Here I want to 
tell the young boys that a trapper's life is a hard one, 
aside from the exposure in running lines of traps. With 
two it is lighter because of a division of labor, but to run 
a line two or three days, skin, stretch and then flesh the 
skins so that particles of fat do not injure them, cook for 



ANTOINE GARDAPEE. 215 

yourself and partner, wash your underclothing, mend 
clothes, moccasins or shoe packs and snowshoes, besides 
cleaning guns, running bullets and doing the hundred 
and one things that must be done, keeps one busy every 
hour of daylight and often afterward. It is an inde- 
pendent sort of life, free from being bossed; but it is hard 
work in a healthy climate, and full of adventure to one 
who loves it. 

Antoine looked over my skins. They comprised one 
otter, two mink, one ermine or white weasel, one fisher 
or "black-cat," which he called by the Indian name of 
o-jig, and is a strange animal of the mink or weasel fam- 
ily which the naturalists know as Mustela canadensis, but 
it also called "pekan" and other names. There was also 
a foot and part of a leg, saved for Antoine's identifica- 
tion, which he called sable, an animal better known as 
pine marten. Then came the skin of the unknown 
beast. When he saw that he jumped and yelled. Then 
he shook hands with me and said: "You b'en done it; 
you killed de ole dev', old Carcajou; he break all de trap 
you set; he know all 'bout trap, an' he go in on hin' end 
and steal bait. He follow you' track to all you' trap, 
and w'en he fin' he break 'em, mebbe he steal 'em. Oh, 
he spile our trap all a time, but you got-a heem. Shake." 

It was a wolverine, an animal with many names, and 
the worst enemy the trapper meets. The badger is also 
called carcajou. 

A day spent in stretching and fleshing skins, and then 
Antoine started to run his line. Our bake oven had 
fallen in, and I brought better stones from the brook and 
built it anew in the fireplace, cooked my dinner and sup- 
per from the carcass of a deer, which Antoine had killed 
and dressed, sat by the fire, smoked a while and turned 
in and slept the sleep of the just. Tired and worn out. 



216 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

acorns might fall, rabbits might snap their legs and wol- 
verines might prowl around. I had killed a wolverine, 
a stealthy night prowler that from pure deviltry destroys 
the work of the trapper, and that was glory enough for a 
first trip. I have no remembrance of any dreams that 
night. I could have said with Sancho Panza: 

"Blessings light on him who first invented sleep! It 
covers a man all over, thoughts and all, like a cloak; it is 
meat for the hungry, drink for the thirsty, heat for the 
cold, and cold for the hot; in short, money that buys 
everything; balance and weight that makes the shepherd 
equal to the monarch and the fool to the wise; there is 
only one evil in sleep, as I have heard, and it is that it 
resembles death, since between a dead and a sleeping 
man there is little difference." 

The sun was high when I awoke, and by my side 
stood Ah-se-bun; but I'll tell you about that another 
time. 



ANTOINE GARDAPEE. 



CANTO II. — ANOTHER WOLVERINE — SNOW BLIND. 



I WOULD ask all such "tenderfeet," in whose ranks 
I was then a recruit, although the term had not 
been invented, how they would feel to awake in a 
cabin in a forest where there was no white man within 
forty miles, except a partner who was off running a line 
of traps, and find an Indian standing silently by the bed? 
Just put yourself in his place. 

After the choking sensation which comes with such a 
scare, and a partly paralyzed heart had begun its regular 
work, the firelight, which, by the way, the intruder had 
replenished, showed the features of our friend Ah-se- 
bun, who gave a saluting grunt and turned toward the 
fire, where he sat until I arose, washed and dressed and 
prepared to get breakfast. The door had been held shut 
against wind and snow by a prop, for there was no fear 
of animals where there was a man and a fire, and our 
guest had somehow removed that without disturbing my 
sleep, but how long he had been in the cabin was un- 
known. He held down a stool by the fire, while I cooked 
breakfast, and he sat there and ate enough for half a 
dqzen laboring men, and drank coffee until there was 
none left. Antoine had taught me never to betray any 
curiosity, and so I handed over a pipeful of tobacco and 
waited. Old Raccoon looked at me inquiringly, and I 
at once filled my pipe, although I never could endure 

217 



218 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

tobacco in the morning, and I took a few puffs and 
awaited his pleasure, curious to know why he had made 
such an unconventional call at so early an hour. He 
smoked his pipe out, emptied it, and sat for what seemed 
a long time before he spoke. 

After some repetition and much gesticulation, it ap- 
peared that he had met Antoine, and that the latter had 
killed a bear, and I must go with hira and help get it to 
camp, and after arranging things in the cabin, I took 
down my rifle to start when my guest shook his head 
and said, "Kowin," and I replaced it at the door. I un- 
derstood then that there would be load enough without 
a ten-pound rifle, and we went off to bring in the bear. 

Enough snow had fallen during the night to make 
hard travelling without snowshoes, so we tied them on 
and started — Ah-se-bun in the lead — up a stream on the 
west side where I had never been, but where my part- 
ner's line of traps began. A tramp of some five miles 
brought us to the place where Antoine had killed the 
bear, about a mile off his line. He was there cooking 
his breakfast when we arrived, for he had been up and 
had the bear skinned and dressed before he started in to 
cook. It happened that he had run his first line of traps 
some fifteen miles, and was crossing the divide to his 
homestretch when he found a fresh bear track in the 
snow, which had begun to fall late in the afternoon, and 
he turned and followed it. The track led him back 
toward camp, and he came upon bruin about sunset and 
killed it where we found him. 

When we came up to him he said: "I t'ink you better 
come up and take ole Afum to camp, an' I'll go on an' 
run my trap, hey? What you want? Bre'kfuss? I 
t'ink yes." 

I said to him: "I have been to breakfast, but can eat 



ANTOINE GARDAPEE. 219 

a little more after the long tramp on snowshoes; but if 
you'll only let our friend the Raccoon have a fair whack 
at that bear the load will be lighter to carry. He's had 
one big breakfast — about five times as much as I could 
eat — but just let him fill up on bear meat, and our load 
home will be light." 

Antoine thought a minute and replied: "I'll tole you. 
I'll doan lak bear leever, but a Injun he lak him bes' of 
all. I'll cook-a heem dat leever, an' you'll heat my col' 
pa'tridge w'at I roas' las' night w'en da bear was warm. 
I'll tole you I'll have long chase for Afum, an' I t'ink I'll 
loss him in a dark, but he stop to look roun' an' I get 
him. He good an' fat, an' w'en he freeze I lak heem jess 
so good as de pork, an' he make some good fat for fry 
de feesh an' roas' de pa'tridge." 

For years the name "Afum" bothered me. The 
Ojibway name for the bear is muckwo, and, as the word 
was neither French nor Indian, it was a puzzle until in 
later years I learned that Western hunters call the griz- 
zly bear "Ephraim," and this must have been the name 
which the trapper tried to use. 

Antoine rigged a couple of light, flexible poles to a 
piece of bark, on which we placed the hindquarters of the 
animal, wrapped in its skin. A short, light rope was 
attached to the poles, and with the rope as a collar and a 
pole under each arm a man could haul quite a load over 
the snow where a sled would have cut in. The front 
edge of the bark was rolled up sled fashion, and by fol- 
lowing the stream and trail it was mainly a down-hill 
haul, with the exception of a few knolls. When all was 
loaded Antoine went his way over his line, and I pointed 
to each load and then to Ah-se-bun to take his choice, the 
hindquarters and skin being the heaviest. Which do 
you think he took? 



220 



MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 



It has been said of a man who is so unfortunate as to 
have to carve at his own table: "If he takes the best cut 
for himself he's a durned hog, and if he doesn't he's a 
durned fool." Now, in making choice of loads — as well 
as in some other things — I will bear witness that my red 
friend was not a "durned fool." There was a sort of 
straightforwardness among the Indians whom I met that 
I've never been able to acquire. They knew what they 
wanted, and they went for it without being hampered by 
etiquette. If there was carving to be done they could 
never be ranked with the d. f.'s, and when the choice of 
loads was offered I got "the lion's share." With more 
experience in the ways of "Mr, Lo," he would not have 
been offered the choice of loads; at the the risk of being 
thought a d. h. I would simply pick up the poles of the 
lighter load, leave him to choose the other. 

It was quite a pull, and our freight had to be un- 
loaded several times to get it around the bad places on an 
Indian trail, for an old path ran along this stream which 
somehow was indistinctly visible even in winter by 
marks, such as fallen trees, which showed where they had 
been worn by being stepped upon or by having lodge 
poles dragged over them, clumps of bushes which had 
been avoided, and the many things which an observing 
eye notes. At times it required both of us to take hold 
of one load, and lift or drag it over or around an obstruc- 
tion, and then do the same with the other. I gave my 
companion frequent opportunities to exchange, but he 
didn't take them. I was too polite to pick up his poles, 
but Antoine said afterward: "By gar! Wen you want 
for change load, you mus' change. He t'ink you big 
fool w'en he gotta da light one all a tam. Nax tam you 
tak-a de small load. He lak-a de big one w'en dat's w'at 
he got. He gotta lak heem." 



ANTOINE GARDAPEE. 221 

When we came to the cabin the sun was well past 
meridian. Clocks and watches had been left far behind 
us. "We took no note of time save by its flight." Ah- 
se-bun, the Raccoon, was hungry. What does half a 
dozen pounds of bear's liver eaten in the morning amount 
to half a day later, after hauling part of a bear five miles 
over crusted snow that often had a sidelong slope toward 
the stream, and over a crooked and log-barred path? I 
was hungry also, but had never got into the Indian habit 
of eating enough in one day to last for three, and so I 
started in to get dinner. I plucked up courage and told 
Lo to go and get some dry wood. He pointed to a pile 
in the corner that was kept for such an emergency as 
severe weather, and intimated that there was plenty. I 
was tired, hungry and cross, and just in the humor to lay 
aside all notions that I must treat an Indian as a gentle- 
man, and I then put away the bear steak, hung up the 
frying-pan and merely said "Nish-ish-shin" (good) and 
lighted my pipe and sat down; in other words, "I struck." 
I thought it out something like this: Here was a lazy, 
gormandizing Indian who came and went at pleasure, 
and could eat as much as four hard-working white men 
and then sleep for a week after it, who would probably 
stay by me as long as the bear lasted and eat the greater 
part of it, after shirking the heaviest load on me, and 
now he was too lazy to get wood to cook his dinner be- 
cause there were a few sticks in the cabin which were 
kept for bad weather. After smoking a few minutes and 
feeling no less angry I lay down, and slept as only a tired 
man can sleep. A noise awoke me; it was my red friend 
bringing in wood. It was dark outside; he had thought 
the matter over, and had concluded that he wanted to get 
some wood, and had got it. This was comfortable to me, 
and I cooked a great lot of bear steaks, baked some 



222 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

bread and we had dinner. He cared nothing for bread 
unless soaked with fat, but the amount of meat he could 
secrete was enormous. It is surprising what an amount 
of animal food a white man can consume in the clear, 
cold winter air of the woods, whether in Wisconsin, 
Maine or the Adirondacks, especially if he is running a 
line of traps or hauling half a bear over a trail that is 
covered with crusted snow, but an Indian can discount 
him. From that time forward I had no fear of asserting 
myself, and of bossing the ranch when our guest and I 
were left alone. I dropped all my civilized notions of 
etiquette and got along nicely. This, of course, does not 
apply to Antoine, for he and I vied with each other in 
doing camp work, and he had all the consideration for a 
companion that could be expected of a man who had 
been reared among different surroundings; but for an 
Indian I began to entertain different feelings. I under- 
stood and appreciated them better afterward, but just 
then I was in the transition state of being disillusioned. 

When Antoine came, two days later, he had some 
skins, and a woeful tale of broken dead-falls and of traps 
carried off. Ah-se-bun had gone. A wolverine had 
struck Antoine's. line, and the old man was tired and 
cross. He sat with his head in his hands before the fire, 
while I made him some coffee and broiled him some 
venison chops on a grill made from some wire we had 
brought for tying traps or other purposes, and then I 
fried some fish in bear fat and set out the tin cups and 
plates, and we ate in silence. It was a good dinner, fit 
for a hard-working trapper who had come in tired and 
angry at having lost the fruits of his labor, I would not 
use the hackneyed phrase, "Fit for a king," because it 
was too good for most of the kings who have come to 
my notice — the dinner was good for Antoine and for me. 



ANTOINE GARDAPEE. 223 

two American kings of the forest, who held dominion 
over all the beasts and exacted tributes of fish, flesh and 
fur from them. And another marauding wolverine was 
invading our realm ! 

By some unwritten law my stool was always at the 
left of the fireplace and Antoine's on the right. The 
tobacco bag hung on my side, and when we were in ex- 
ecutive session it was my duty to hand out "the weed of 
Ole Virginny." So after we had removed our stools 
from the table, which was half an oak log, with legs set 
in holes made by an inch auger, we sat down in our 
places, and I handed the old man the plug. After his 
pipe was filled and emptied he said: "You stop here till 
I keel de dev'. I go watch for heem. My trap all fix, 
all right— he come to-night an' I keel a-heem, he keel 
a-me, it make no dif. He run my line all a-tam an' I no 
git heem; he break all our trap like hell a'most. Gimme 
some tobac." 

Tobacco had a soothing effect on Antoine, as it has 
on many men, and a second pipe quieted his anger, but 
did not interfere with his determination. I filled his 
haversack with provisions, and with blankets and snow- 
shoes on back and rifle on shoulder he started on his 
mission of revenge. He did not say with Shylock: 

"If I can catch him once upon the hip, 

I will feed fat the ancient grudge I bear him." 

He had never heard of Shylock, but he had in his heart 
all the revengeful feeling that the poor, persecuted Jew 
felt for his enemies. 

It was well along toward sundown when he left, and 
I cleaned up our table and got in the night wood, and 
spent the evening in the unpoetic work of darning my 
woollen socks, filling the box in the stock of my rifle with 



224 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

greased patches of proper size, putting new strings on 
the ear-laps of my cap, overhauHng my mittens, exam- 
ining suspenders and buttons, and doing all those little 
things which men wholly cut off from the deft hand of 
woman must do for themselves in their own bungling 
■way — or have a breakdown when there is neither time 
nor opportunity for repairs. It is wonderful what a man 
can do when thrown on his own resources, when there is 
the same imperative word "must" which always con- 
fronts the soldier. He must, or 

Rolling up in my blankets, I fully expected some 
adventure or visitation before morning, but nothing hap- 
pened. Three nights passed in this way. I fished, cut 
firewood and busied myself with other things, but always 
with a thought of Antoine. He was a long time coming; 
perhaps he might be caught in the bear trap — there was 
a big one on his line — or perhaps he might be crippled 
by some accident and be starving! He did not come, 
and these thoughts by repetition became probabilities. 
I filled my sack with provisions and shouldered my rifle. 
I would meet him on the back track, and I followed his 
returning trail all day and crossed the divide between 
his two streams and crawled into his camp at night. His 
trail was plain, although I had never been over it before. 
He had rigged a sleeping place beside a huge log, and 
had made a shelter with poles and brush. A bed of 
leaves was inviting, and I rolled into my blankets and 
slept until morning. 

He had not left the trail so far — that was plain. After 
breakfast I started down his line on the other stream, 
and after a few miles found one of his dead-falls broken. 
Here was the first evidence of the robber. Further on I 
found where Antoine had left the trail and gone off to 
leeward, and had made himself a sort of breastwork camp 



ANTOINE GARDAPEE. 225 

in good range of the rear of a trap, and on examining the 
latter there was evidence of a tussle and some blood, but 
about an inch of snow had fallen in the night, and the 
afifair had occurred at least twenty-four hours before ; but 
Antoine was still missing. I saw where he had left the 
trail, and where he had returned to it one hundred yards 
below, and again where he had stepped on the stones in 
the brook, which lead a long way down as well as across, 
and I took the trail down the valley home. He was not 
there, and it was nearly night of the fourth day. He 
had been out four nights, and I was alarmed — perhaps 
"scared" would express it better. Here I was hundreds 
of miles in the wilderness alone. The feeling was not 
entirely one of selfish helplessness now. I could care 
for myself fairly well in the woods, and did not mind the 
solitude; but I found that I had a feeling of love for my 
companion which had been latent and only brought out 
by his long absence, which it seemed must be caused by 
some accident. I ate supper and tried to sleep, but for 
the second time in the woods I was tired, but not sleepy. 

Morning came. I cooked enough to last me several 
days on a trip after my companion. I would go back to 
the stepping stones where I had lost the trail, and find 
it. Dead or alive, I must know where Antoine was. 
He had not been hurt in a dead-fall, that was sure, for I 
had seen them all; but, if living, he would surely have 
been back before this. I slung my haversack and 
blankets, and started back on his outgoing trail, deter- 
mined to find him if possible, and to look closer along 
the banks of the stream, where the new snow might have 
covered his track for a short distance. I had hardly got 
one hundred yards from the cabin when I heard Antoine 
call: "Hello! where you go now? Come back here; I 
want some grub for to heat. You run 'way w'en I come 



226 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

lak you doan want a see me. Wat for you go off dat 
a-way?" 

He had come in on my branch of the stream, and if I 
had got out of sight or hearing before he arrived there 
would have been a long and useless tramp for me — and 
perhaps one for him to find me. Who knows but we 
both might still be going the rounds in the wilds of Wis- 
consin on each other's trails? I made him hot coffee, 
while he unslung his pack and washed, and then it was 
good to see the old man "heat." Slices of cold boiled 
bear ham, hot broiled venison steak, tin cups of coffee, 
and more bread than I dare tell, went in quantities, and 
it seemed a long time before he pulled his stool to the fire 
and said : "Gimme dat tobac'." 

It took three pipefuls before he felt like talking, and 
then, seeing that I betrayed no curiosity, he said: "I got 
dat ole dev'," and then paused. I knew him too well to 
make any reply or ask a question. He had taken his 
first liking to me because I had happened to betray no 
curiosity, and I knew that if he was questioned he would 
give short answers; but if let alone he would tell it all in 
his own way, and be anxious to do it. His pack of skins 
lay on the floor unopened. I sat and looked at the fire, 
for I could not smoke as much as he, and when the spirit 
again moved him he said: "I got hees skin dere in de 
pack; w'en I hopen it you see heem. He make me hard 
run all-a night after I break his laig f'um where I hide 
by my trap, an' it was his front laig; so he go 'long good, 
an' I'll run all de night w'en I can see heem or hees 
track, an' I shoot-a heem t'ree time on a run an' I no hit 
heem. W'en day come I see da track plain, an' I stop 
for res' an heat my grub. Ole Carcajou he no lak-a day- 
tam for be hout, an' I t'ink me he fin' some hole for lay 
hup in. So I go 'long slow for give heem tarn to fin' 



ANTOINE GARDAPEE. 227 

hole, an' he go all-a day 'way off to nor'eas' lak he go 
to-a Wiscons' Riv'. Nex' night I fin' hees hole, an' I 
make fire an' sleep by heem. Mornin' I see it was all a 
rock an' not hees deep hole in a groun' for to have to 
smoke heem hout; so I pull some rock down and see 
heem, an' he growl, an' I shoot. He was too much tire 
to go on to fin' deepes' hole. I'll tole you, hees skeen 
a'n't wort' much, but w'en I no getta heem we no do 
more trap in dis part. Dat was good hunt. Wat you 
say, hey?" 

That was a long story for Antoine, but he felt proud 
that his enemy's hide was in his pack; for this wolverine, 
sometimes called "glutton," seems to take delight in de- 
stroying traps, or in befouling the bait if he does not care 
to eat it, and the trapper who finds one on his range must 
kill it or go elsewhere. It is very cunning and has great 
strength — a combination of bear and fox — and is well 
characterized by Antoine as "de ole dev'." The skin 
has some value for robes and rugs, but to the trapper 
whose line it has discovered its hide has a greater value 
than any fur dealer would give for it — a hundred times 
more. 

When Antoine unrolled his pack he had a lot of skins, 
mainly from one of my lines, which he had come down. 
In the lot was a silver fox, the first I had ever seen, and 
several pelts of the white weasel, which we call "ermine." 
It was my turn next day, but as one of my lines had been 
recently run by my partner the work was light, because 
there were few traps to reset. 

In the morning I thought to make a quick run, and, 
as there was only a couple of inches of snow on top of the 
hard crust, I left my snowshoes in the cabin, but An- 
toine called me back, saying: "I'll tole you, w'en I'll see 
da ring on da moon las' night we go gat some snow 



228 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

bambye, and you'll want some ah-glm for walk home. 
I'll tole you." So I went back, and slung my snow- 
shoes and started again. 

About a mile from camp a fox had killed a rabbit, and 
left the story of the tragedy recorded in the snow. There 
was the track of the rabbit, with its three holes in the 
snow made at each jump, but as the leaps were only one 
and a half feet apart it was evident that it was not fright- 
ened. The ambush of the fox was plain where it had 
crouched in the snow, and the hole scooped out where it 
had struck its prey; and then the single line of footprints 
where it had trotted off with the rabbit, all the feet set in 
one straight line, fox fashion. 

I amused myself in picturing the midnight scene by 
the evidence of the snow, and went on to the first trap. 
It was a strong double-spring steel trap set under a log 
in a place which a mink or fisher would be likely to take 
on its way to or from the creek. The snow had drifted 
lightly over the pan, concealing it, and in the trap was 
the foreleg of a fox and a rabbit lay near it. Here was 
another story of the woods, briefly told. I reset the trap, 
smeared rabbit blood about it, took the rabbit for bait for 
other traps and went on. About noon it began to snow, 
and I ran the rest of the line in haste, taking out a mink 
or a fisher, resetting traps and rebaiting some, and 
pushed on for my old resting place. I had improved my 
first night's camp with poles and bark, and now had a 
good, warm shelter, free from snow, which now came 
thick and fast. Antoine was right. If the storm kept up 
all night no man could move next day without ah-gim on 
his feet, and I thought myself in luck. The intense still- 
ness of a snowstorm we have all noticed. How every 
sound is muffled, and all Nature seems hushed by its 
white mantle! 



ANTOINE GARDAPEE. 229 

"Lo! sifted through the winds that blow, 
Down comes the soft and silent snow, 
White petals from the flowers that grow 

In the cold atmosphere. 
These starry blossoms, pure and white. 
Soft falling, falling, through the night, 

Have draped the woods and mere." 

The night was grand for sleeping, for it is never very 
cold when the snow comes in big flakes, and the morn 
was also grand. The snow had ceased falling, and the 
air was bright and clear. The same silence brooded 
over the woods, and was only emphasized by the tapping 
of a woodpecker or the hoarse croak of a raven. I would 
cross the divide and run the line down the other stream 
after all, for it only meant a few more miles, and then 
the week's work was done. It was in heavy timber all 
the way; my old trail was hidden, but I knew the bear- 
ings, and had only to keep the sun on my right until I 
struck the stream, and then follow it eastward. After 
breakfast I started. The sun was bright and dazzling — 
too much so for comfort. The traps were under twenty 
inches of snow, and I dug most of them out with a snow- 
shoe and got a few skins and set things in shape as well 
as possible. When I stopped for a noon lunch my eyes 
were so inflamed that they were painful. My soft cap 
was pulled down in front, and I went on in the bright 
sunshine and the drip of the trees, using one eye at a 
time, until I could no longer see. I could not be more 
than two miles from home, but could not avoid logs or 
choose my steps, and I was in despair. I shot ofif my 
rifle and yelled. Surely Antoine should hear a shot that 
distance in such clear weather. I shot again and again, 
perhaps a dozen times, and then I heard an answering 
shot down the valley. My eyes were streaming, and I 



230 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

could not have gone a rod further. It seemed hours 
before I heard Antoine's inquiring yell, and then he 
found me. 

"So you gone snow blin', hey? Why, you don' take 
some sof inside bark, an' make some spectacle an' make 
leetly hole in him w'en de ole sun come on a snow, hey?" 

"Oh, Antoine, get me into camp! My eyes are 
ruined, and I'll never see again ! I felt 'em getting weak 
and sore, but never thought I'd get stone blind; but 
maybe if I get a chance to rest I'll come out all right." 

"Yes, you com-a all right. I t'ink you was got ketch 
in dead-fall, or got into some hole an' break you laig 
w'en I hear you shoot nine or 'leven tarn. Gimme you' 
pack an' you' gun, an' keep hoi' dis string an' come 'long 
o' me. Dat snow blin' make no dif w'en you keep in 
camp ten day. Come 'long." 

And so he towed me into camp by a string, stopping 
and helping me over a fallen tree or other bad place, for 
he had bandaged my eyes and all was dark. When we 
reached the cabin he sat one of the wooden troughs, 
which his handy axe had made, by me and told me to 
bathe my eyes with the cool and soft snow water it con- 
tained, and not to look at the fire or anything else. A 
fever came on, and for the first time in my life I knew 
what it was to be perfectly helpless in a wilderness. 
Coming into it in the full strength of youth and health, 
no idea of anything that could disable me ever came to 
mind. Here I was, laid up and despondent. There was 
no belief that youth and an iron constitution were suf- 
ficient to cure my ills; all I knew was that I was a wreck 
and a hindrance to my partner. 

"I'll tole you dat make no dif," said Antoine; "you 
doan min' a-me; keep-a still. I'll get some bark an' stop 
dat feve', an' you come 'long all rite. I'll tole you, you 



ANTOINE GARDAPEE. 231 

lie down an' doan min' noding. Keep-a eye shut — dat 
snow blin' he make no dif; I'll tole you he'll be all right 
in ten day." 

This was consoling, and might be true. Antoine 
cared for me like a mother. He steeped some bark — per- 
haps white oak, I knew at the time — and my fever left me 
in a few days, but my eyes could not even bear the fire 
light. Ah-se-bun came into the cabin. He was hungry, 
as usual, for I never saw an Indian that wasn't, and after 
filling himself with bear meat he rested, and Antoine 
said: "Ole Miss'r 'Coon, he says he stay here an' take care 
you, an' I'll run my trap, Ba gosh, day hain't been run in 
long tam, I'll guess, I'll tole you der is plenty for heat, 
and Miss'r 'Coon, he mus' cook w'en he got hunger. All 
you got for do is keep-a eye shut an' wash heem in snow 
water. I'll be back in free day, an' here is plenty for 
heat, an' you eye he make no dif; he come good w'en 
you doan' go on de snow." 

The Ojibway tongue had seemed very easy to use with 
Antoine, who could translate what I did not understand. 
It seemed to be merely to learn another name for a thing, 
and I had only learned some nouns. To talk with a 
native was another thing. Ah-se-bun wanted the axe 
and came to me and said: "Au-gua-kwet?" I answered: 
"Au-gua-kwet is over behind the pa-que-shi-gun," but in 
my mixture of English he failed to understand the last 
word to mean wheat flour, bread or anything else. That 
kind of talk did first rate with Antoine, but the Raccoon 
did not understand his own language. That was very 
queer. 

The light in the cabin was very dim when the fire was 
not bright, for our "windows" consisted of two holes, one 
in the door and one opposite, over which were stretched 
the dried "caul," or what surgeons know as the periton- 



232 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

eum, of a deer. When the fire was not bright this gave 
"a dim, reHgious light," such as steals into some silent 
crypt through stained glass in an old cathedral, and my 
eyes improved daily. After some days I could get about 
the room and do a few things, such as washing out my 
rifle and oiling it, and it was a surprise to see the Indian 
eat and sleep. He would rouse up and get wood to 
cook. The provisions were unlimited, as part of the bear 
was left, and Antoine had buried a deer in the snow. So 
it was a picnic for our friend, and he did not even have 
to hunt nor fish. 

When Antoine came he whittled a huge pair of spec- 
tacles for me out of dry spruce. They were solid except 
a small longitudinal slit for each eye, through which one 
could see all that was necessary, and all lights from points 
outside the range of vision were excluded. They were 
fitted to my eyes with exactness, and where glasses 
would be in ordinary spectacles there were hollows 
which were blackened with charcoal, and with these I 
could venture out even in strong sunlight, and next day 
I ran my line of traps with them, seeing perfectly every- 
thing that I wished to see, unharmed by the light of the 
snow. The only unusual event on this trip was seeing 
where several deer had crossed my trail on the jump, 
followed by some wolves, as shown in the snow. As the 
deer were yarded up during such deep snow, the wolves 
must have stampeded some of them; but we had not seen 
nor heard a wolf in our part of the woods all winter. 

Returning to the cabin the day afterward, Antoine 
said: "I'll tole you, Chris'mas he come to-morrow, and 
we stop home an' heat good Chris'mas dinner; what you 
say, hey?" and he showed me where he had kept a record 
of the days on a stick. I had not given a thought to the 
matter further than to note that it was midwinter by the 



ANTOINE GARDAPEE. 233 

sun being at its southern limit, but my partner was a 
more devout man, and told his beads at proper times, 
kept count of the days, and knew that this was Christmas 
Eve. And so it was settled that we should not hunt nor 
fish on the morrow, but would observe the day in a 
civilized manner, just as the folks at home were doing. 
Antoine had hung some evergreens over the fireplace 
and over the bed, and with thoughts of those at home we 
crawled under our blankets, and morning came. 



ANTOINE GARDAPEE. 

CANTO III. — CHRISTMAS IN THE FOREST. 

THE Christmas sun was not too bright for a winter 
day, and there was no wind, I was roused by 
the loud tapping of the great northern wood- 
pecker on one of the logs of our house. This large bird 
is almost extinct to-day, and few young men have seen 
it alive. Its length was eighteen inches, and its tappings 
were in proportion. Antoine had been up some time, 
and was smoking his pipe by the fire, for he was one of 
those who can smoke before breakfast. When he saw 
me up he rose, and with a hearty shake said: "Merry 
C'ris'mas; I'll hope you'll be all well," and he prepared 
the breakfast. As I went to the spring to wash I looked 
at my unshaven face in its glassy surface, and wondered 
what the good people at home would say if such an ap- 
parition should walk in on them, for we had no razors 
nor mirrors, and had been all winter in the wilds of Wis- 
consin, with only an occasional Indian visitor to look 
at us. 

The spring near our cabin was the head of a bit of 
marshy ground which was so filled with springs that it 
never froze nor was even covered with snow, as it soon 
melted and drained ofif into a tributary of the Bad Ax. 
But on this Christmas morning of 1855 there was a wood- 
cock feeding in that marsh. I saw it plainly, flushed it, 
and know that it was a woodcock. Those who have fol- 
lowed these sketches will credit me with knowing this 
bird when I see it. Why it was there is a question. It 
could fly well. 

After breakfast, and the meditative smoking which 

234 



ANTOINE GARDAPEE. 235 

seemed part of Antoine's religion, I thought of fleshing 
some skins, but Antoine said: "Let da skin res' to-day; 
all res', all man he res' on C'ris'mas; you doan' do no 
work w'en he come in you' home; no, sare, you doan' do 
not'ing but res', all a peep' da res'. Wat you say, hey?" 

"I say that I can't sit by this fire all day just because 
it's Christmas; I wouldn't sit down that way if I was 
home among my people; I'd walk around, and if I'd been 
at hard work all the week I might go and spear eels 
through the ice. A live man can't sit like a lump on a 
log all day. There's no place to go here, and these last 
skins want fleshing and I want something to do, that's 
all." 

"You go spear da heel on C'ris'mas, hey? Well, he's 
all right in da hafternoon, but I go in da church on a 
C'ris'mas mornin', and mebbe I'll got drunk in a hafter- 
noon; I'll doan' work on no ole skin an' I'll doan' spear 
no heel; on'y res'." 

"Do you ever go to church any other day in the year, 
Antoine? I'll bet fifty mink skins you don't, and the 
chances are that you go to a dance on Christmas Eve 
and sleep all the next morning and don't get to church 
at all." 

"Wat you talk? Did you say some prayer w'en you 
got hup dis mornin? No! I'll bet nine or 'leven mink 
you ha'n't said prayer all da wint'. I'll count all a-my 
bead 'fore you'll git hup. I'll tole you I'll got s'prise wot 
make you' eye bung hout. Dat make no dif w'en I'll go 
in da church, I'll show you some C'ris'mas dinna till you 
bu'st you' belt, you bet. I'll been look hout all-a wint' 
for see da day come w'en we res' an' heat jess lak' da 
peep' way down da riv' by Potosi." 

Our food had been simple, but always in plenty. Ven- 
ison, 'coon, bear, rabbit, partridge and fish prepared in 



236 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

several ways, as boiled, fried, broiled or roasted; and we 
had good bread, coffee, sugar and an occasional bean 
soup. The fat of the bear and the 'coon was as good as 
lard, and often our stale bread was soaked and fried. So 
we had a good substitute for butter and lard, and the only 
thing that might have been lacking was the potato, which 
would be difficult to keep, and was too bulky to carry. 
Surely this was good living for healthy men in a wilder- 
ness in winter. But from hints which Antoine dropped 
from time to time this profusion might not last. This 
was the first idle day of the winter, and as my partner had 
intimated that he was going to surprise me with a Christ- 
mas dinner I left him to arrange it, and wandered out 
with my snowshoes and snow-blinders. 

Heretofore I had always gone up the several little 
streams which formed the east and west branches of the 
Bad Ax River, where our traps were set. To-day I 
would go down the stream, which I had not seen since 
we brought our provisions up its valley in the fall. I 
had gone about about two miles when a log invited me 
to rest. The winter landscape was beautiful; the bluish 
tints of the twigs against the sky and along the stream 
relieved the whiteness, and the day was perfect. A rabbit 
came slowly jumping along, and passed within twenty 
feet of my log, and soon a fox appeared following its 
track, but took the alarm at several times twenty feet and 
trotted off over the hill, with an occasional glance over his 
shoulder to make sure that the man on the log was not 
following. I fell to thinking how animals differ, just as 
men do — one dull and unperceiving, and another alert 
and watchful. A child could have shot the rabbit, but 
only a rifleman could have touched reynard. 

Then came a thought that food might be scarce with 
us, as what Antoine had said was recalled. As I under- 



ANTOINE GARDAPEE. - 237 

stood the case, the deer were in "yards," where they had 
trampled the snow so that the crust did not cut their legs, 
and as they could not forage far they were getting poor. 
And these yards were some distance ofif, so that a special 
trip of twenty miles or more would have to be made to 
get venison. Bears had gone into winter quarters, and 
would not stir out for a couple of months. Partridges 
found food scarce, were poor, and were eating bitter 
buds, which made them unpalatable. 'Coons were laid 
up, like the bears, and there was a prospect of scant ra- 
tions. Antoine said that some trappers ate the flesh of 
the pine marten, or sable, and the related species called 
pekan, fisher, black cat, etc.; but Antoine wouldn't eat 
them, and very naturally I refused them. I should think 
that a man would have to be very hungry to eat any of 
the tribe to which the mink and weasel belong. We do 
not care to eat the animals whose diet is exclusively flesh 
— such as the cats and dogs — whether we call them tigers 
or wolves, but the deer and the sheep are vegetarians, 
while the bear and the hog eat similar food, and we eat 
them. It looked as though we must live on rabbit and 
our present store of venison and bear the rest of the win- 
ter, and rabbits were not plenty. 

While engaged in such thoughts a gray squirrel came 
in sight, and I watched it run up a tree and jump into 
another, and then it stopped at a hole in a tall tree and 
seemed to want to enter it, and then appeared afraid and 
would draw back and then peer in again. The tree was 
an oak, and the hole was small, like a woodpecker's. I 
noted that the bark on it was torn, and as the sun was 
high I went back home. 

"Hello!" said Antoine, "I'll t'ink you go got los', an' 
I mus' heat a C'ris'mas din' all 'lone. Jess in tam, an' 
glad for see you! Bon j'oiir!" 



238 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

We shook hands like old friends long parted, and he 
motioned me to my seat at table with courtly grace, and 
it began to dawn upon me that I was, for this occasion, 
not his partner, but his guest. He had prepared the din- 
ner alone, as he had intimated he would, and he was host, 
chef, garcon and companion all in one on this Christmas 
Day in the wilds of Wisconsin. The first course was a 
soup of deer shanks with the marrow-bones cracked; but 
I will try to put that memorable dinner in the shape that 
some chef of to-day would put it, when it would be like 
this, with my translation: 

MENU. 

POTAGE. 

Consomme du bois. (Deer shank soup.) 

POISSON. 

Saumon du font, au naturel. (Brook trout fried.) 

RELEVE. 

Tranches d'agneau montebello. (Venison steak, sweet sauce.) 
Aqua pura. (Bad Ax water.) 

ENTREES. 

Poularde a la chevreuse. (Boiled partridge.) 

Haricots. (Baked beans.) 

Vin du Bad Ax. 

ENTREMETS DE DOUCEUR. 

Pouding de ris au fruites. (Rice pudding with raisins.) 
Cafe. Tobac. 

Now I ask you — I mean you sportsmen, old and 
young — how does that seem to you for a Christmas din- 
ner either in the woods or in the wildest restaurants of 
New York city? 

Most of these things we had cooked in one shape or 
another, but never such a lay-out as that at one feed. 
The great surprise came with the rice pudding with 
raisins, for I had no idea that these things were in camp; 
but Antoine had smuggled a handful of rice and a few 



ANTOINE GARDAPEE. 239 

raisins among the things bought at Prairie du Chien for 
just such a treat, and the old man enjoyed my surprise. 
The whole dinner was a surprise, for that matter; but the 
rice and raisins — well, they more than filled the bill. The 
"tobac" was burned by the fire, and after such a gorge 
we laid ourselves down and slept until dark. 

We were awakened by the entrance of Ah-se-bun, the 
Raccoon, who accepted the invitation to dinner, and he 
not only cleaned up what we had left, but he put a polish 
on every bone until he could work no more. There was 
a big lot of the rice pudding left, but when he finished 
the last of it he grunted, "Nish-ish-shin," and curled up 
to sleep. 

As Antoine and I sat by the fire while the Indian 
snored I told him about the oak tree and the squirrel 
which I had seen in the morning. I might not have 
thought of it again but for the fact that the tree was so 
scarred, as by some large animal climbing it. 

"Ba gar," said he, "ole pard, I'll tole you what. 
Shake ! You done foun' a bee tree an' we got da honey. 
Whoop! I'll tole you we'll got no bear meat no mo' w'en 
de las' one he all heat up, an' da deer he all in da yard 
an' poor, I'll tole you da honey he come in good an' I'll 
cut da bee tree w'en da day come. You do good t'ing 
w'en you go down da riv'. Shake!" 

I was curious to know why Ah-se-bun was the only 
Indian who visited us except the party which once came 
with him, and why he seemed to be wandering up and 
down, and never carried a gun. Antoine told me that 
there was an encampment of Indians about 150 miles 
north on the Flambeau River, a branch of the Chippewa ; 
another some sixty miles due east on the Wisconsin 
River, and a third one thirty miles southeast on the same 
stream. Our friend was a sort of messenger between 



240 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

the three camps, and our cabin was a convenient point 
for him to stop, eat and rest. As Antoine put it, our 
guest did not carry a rifle because he always started with 
some "grub," but would prefer to go hungry for a few 
days, if necessary, to carrying a rifle and such game as 
he might kill. Then it was all plain. Ah-se-bun could 
go hungry for two or three days, eat enough to last a 
week and go on, and he was too lazy to hunt and carry 
his gun and game. Afterward I learned that he was not 
peculiar in all this, but that they were the common traits 
of his race. As near as I can make out from the map of 
Wisconsin in a school atlas of to-day we were on the fork 
of the Bad Ax River in what is now Vernon county, and 
just north of Readstown ; but there was no town, village 
or settlement on the river that we saw or heard of when 
we went up it in 1855. At any rate, we were near the 
main forks of the river, and our cabin was between the 
streams. 

Our Christmas festival was ended. The morrow 
would bring the regular routine work, only varied by the 
conditions of weather. 

"We ring the bells and we raise the strain, 
We hang up garlands ev'rywhere 
And bid the tapers twinkle fair, 
And feast and frolic — and then we go 
Back to the same old lives again." 

It was a happy Christmas, because all our simple 
wants were filled. We were warm and well fed; every 
wish had been gratified as far as we had wishes, for we 
could say with Biron, in "Love's Labor's Lost:" 

"At Christmas I no more desire a rose 

Than wish a snow in May's new-fangled shows." 

And so with minds at peace and bodies prepared for 



ANTOINE GARDAPEE. 241 

rest we stepped over the sleeping Indian by the fire and 
crawled into our own blankets, and if there were any 
visions they were of the loved ones at home. 

In the morning Antoine used a file on his axe while I 
prepared the breakfast, and then Ah-se-bun went down 
the stream with us as far as the bee tree, and continued 
his journey without even a goodby grunt or the slightest 
expression of interest in our work. This sort of thing 
had ceased to exasperate me, and I was getting used to 
what Antoine termed "Injun unpoliteness," for said he: 
"Dem Injun he t'ink it smart to be unpolite, but he lak 
you an' he doan lak you, an' he doan tole you how much. 
Hit make no dif. Ole Ah-se-bun, he say, *Kego-e-kay 
nish-ish-shin,' an' he mean you good man," 

"That may be all right, Antoine; but when the hun- 
gry cuss comes into camp he is polite, and gives us 
the bon jour, which he learned from your people; but 
when he's got his belly full he goes ofif, and never gives 
us a grunt — which is the salutation of his people. It 
may be all right, but I don't like it. Your people and 
mine give as warm a shake at parting as they do at meet- 
ing, and when we have been entertained we say 'goodby,' 
if no more." 

"Wen you know Injun better you fine heem hout 
more, an' you doan mind. You know w'at make da 
scratch all-a bark f'um da bee tree an' roun da hole? I'll 
tole you. He's a bear, an' he'll clam hup for getta da 
hun' an' fine da hole too small. Da bee he on'y come las' 
year, 'cause da bark on'y scratch hoff dis a-wint'." 

Antoine cut down the big oak without help. I was 
fully as strong as he was, but when it came to handling 
an axe my wild blows counted but little, while not one of 
his was wasted. I could strike once in a place, but An- 
toine's stump was a level one; and the tree, if straight. 



242 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

would be weakened to the proper point on the side he 
wished it to fall before the other side was touched. An 
expert axeman is a mechanic in a broad sense. I never 
was an expert with the axe like Gladstone, Len Jewell, 
Antoine and other great men. 

The great oak fell, and limbs which kept the trunk 
from the ground were cut, and then the question was: Is 
the store of honey above or below the small hole, which 
was not large enough to admit a man's hand? A careful 
examination of the hole showed that a dead limb had left 
a place which woodpeckers had followed into the heart 
of the tree, and the rains and the frosts had helped them 
to enlarge their excavations in the decayed heart, but the 
yearly growth of sap-wood had kept the outer hole small. 
The bees had so closed the hole with wax that the rain 
was shed outwardly, and when we cut ofif a section two 
feet above and a like distance below the hole, and split it, 
we found a store of honey that made us cut poles in order 
to carry it home in a roll of bark. It not only helped us 
out through the season of scant game, but we took some 
honey home to Potosi. What's that? You want to 
know what became of the poor bees which had laid up 
this store to keep them through the winter? In the 
name of man, what do you think? They simply died 
from cold and hunger; what's that to us? You fellows 
who think that because a bee had laid up a store for the 
winter by hard work he is entitled to use it to preserve 
his life make me tired. What is the sufifering or death 
of any animal to man, if he wants the product of its labor 
to tickle his palate, or its fur to supply the demands of 
fashion? What is the suffering of his fellow man to him 
if he fills his coffers? Yet this spirit of selfishness exists 
throughout all nature; the fox eats the rabbit, but there 
are men who have sacrificed self for principle, a motive 



ANTOINE GARDAPEE. 243 

beyond anything that is possible for one of the "lower 
animals" to do, and after all there are men who are really 
honest as the world goes who will rob a hard-working 
bee of the fruits of its summer labor and leave it to perish 
in the winter. 

A month later there was a thaw, and I got caught in 
it. The thongs in the snowshoes softened and stretched, 
and in places where the shade of hills or trees preserved 
the temperature the snow packed and froze on the thongs 
until it was severe work to lift a foot. Frequent recourse 
to the stream removed the snow, but it was only a tem- 
porary relief, and progress was slow and painful. The 
crust had softened, and without snowshoes a man would 
sink down at least twenty inches, which was knee-deep 
for me, and in snow packed by laying all winter this 
made travel impossible without snowshoes, while with 
them a thaw like this clogged them so that they were of 
little use. It was evident that I must make a camp for 
the night before the regular camping place could be 
reached, and before nightfall I had a shelter constructed 
against a huge log by means of poles and brush, and a 
bed of balsam boughs kept my blankets from the snow. 
I was out three nights on this trip, and was lame and 
sore on reaching the cabin. The stream was so high and 
rapid that it would have involved some extra miles of 
travel to find a crossing place if Antoine had not felled a 
great oak across the swollen brook at the point where he 
knew I would reach it. 

Antoine had a severe toothache. It had troubled 
him a little for some weeks, but now it was raging. To- 
bacco had no effect upon it, and he suffered in silence 
except when an extra twinge forced a sacre or a big D 
from him. He ate little, but sat by the fire and thought. 
Pipe after pipe was filled and emptied, and still he 



244 MEN 1 HAVE FISHED WITH. 

thought. My sore muscles kept me still until it was 
about time to turn in, and as I moved Antoine looked up 
and said : "I'll tole you. You gat pull dis toot'. I can't 
Stan' heem no mo' ; you mus' pull a-heem. Wat you say, 
hey? I'll t'ink I'll wait till you come back; but he hurt 
lak da dev'." 

Here was a strange job indeed. In the course of my 
short experience I could remember going down the 
Greenbush bank to Dr. Getty and seeing him wrap a 
handkerchief around what he called a "turnkey," and 
then I nearly fainted when he told me to open my mouth 
while he applied that villainous thing, which was like a 
"cant hook," which lumbermen use to roll logs, or like a 
stump puller, and twisted a molar out of my jaw by turn- 
ing such a handle as a corkscrew has. Later, Dr. Fris-- 
bee had used the more modern forceps on one of my in- 
cisors, and these recollections were vivid, as they called 
up the sensation of nerves pulled until they snapped like 
a harp string. I ran these things over rapidly and said : 

"Antoine, I haven't got a tool to pull a tooth with, 
and wouldn't know how to pull it if I had. I've seen the 
loose teeth of children pulled with a thread, but that tooth 
of yours is solid in your jaw. I can't do it; no use talk- 
ing about it." 

"I'll gat da t'ing all plan," said he, "I'll tole you. 
'Fore you come I'll run up all da lead in bullet for you' 
big gun an' mine. Dan we gat no use for da mole. 
You'll tak da mole an' pull da toot', hey?" 

"Antoine, I can't pull that tooth with a bullet mould; 
it isn't the right shape, and it won't hold. I'll only tor- 
ture you, and you'd better wait until we get back to civil- 
ization. The tooth may be better in a few days. Try 
and bear it; we'll be home in a few weeks, and then if it 
troubles you there will be a chance to have it pulled by 



ANTOINE GARDAPEE. 245 

some dentist; I can't do it, and that is all there is 
about it." 

"Now look-a here. See how I'll fix da mole for 
pull-a toot'." And he showed me how he had ruined a 
good bullet mould to make a poor pair of forceps. He 
had taken one of the files which we brought to sharpen 
our axes, and had filed off the outsides of the mould into 
the cavity until the thing resembled a blacksmith's 
pincers. Then he had roughened the tips to make a grip 
for them, and had actually hollowed the edges to fit his 
tooth. I looked the thing over with conflicting emo- 
tions. Here was an instrument of torture which in ex- 
pert hands might relieve suffering, but in mine seemed 
sure to increase it. One thing was certain, Antoine was 
in earnest; he was desperate; no suicide was ever more 
so. He watched my face, and after a while said: "Wat 
you say, hey?" 

"I say that I want to help you out of your agony, but 
I don't believe I can do it." 

"You 'fraid you hurt me, hey?" 

"Yes, Antoine, that's just it; I'm afraid I will hurt 
you, and not do you any good." 

"I'll tole you, he mak' no dif. I'll gat all da hurt. 
Wat for you 'fraid? You no getta hurt; come on, I'll 
tak' da chance; you tole how you want me for set down 
so you pull da bes'." 

Putting fresh logs on the fire, and bringing in some 
brush to make a bright light, for the old man would not 
wait until morning, I looked at the offending tooth. For 
the benefit of my dentist friends, who have given me the 
most exquisite form of torture applied to man in modern 
days, I will say that the offending tooth was a pre-molar 
on the right side of the lower jaw. 

Antoine laid himself on the floor, and I sat with my 



246 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. . 

back to the logs of the cabin. If they did not give way 
I was all right. I pulled him up to me, put a wooden 
plug between his molars to keep his mouth open, planted 
both feet on his shoulders, put the improvised forceps on 
the tooth and pulled. There was a howl as I pulled with 
arms and pushed with legs, but the "pullicans" slipped 
from my hands. They were all right as far as a grip on 
the tooth went, but they were not made for a strong pull 
on their handles. 

Let us pass over, in a spirit of charity, any remarks 
that Antoine made. No doubt the recording angel 
blotted them from the book, as he did the one made by 
"my Uncle Toby," and I have no desire to go behind the 
record furtfier than to say that Antoine really did say 
something when his tooth was started from its socket, 
but still throbbed with violence. 

Antoine arose and looked at me, "more in sorrow 
than in anger," and I hastened to say: "The mould 
slipped in my hand; there is no grip on the handles, but 
if you can stand another go of this I will fix the thing so 
that the tooth or the bullet mould will break, or I will 
bring out the tooth or your jawbone. What you say, 
hey?" 

Antoine merely nodded assent, and I put the handles 
of the bullet mould in the fire and then turned them out- 
ward so that they could not slip through my hands. 
Something must come now if Antoine had not had 
enough. I was not sure that I could have stood another 
such a trial if our positions had been reversed, but it is 
easy to stand it when the other fellow does the suflfering. 
When the handles were cool and all was ready I looked 
at Antoine, who had resumed his seat by the fire with his 
jaw in his hand. He arose and said: 

"W'en you ready I'll come one odder tam. Mebbe 



ANTOINE GARDAPEE. 247 

you'll t'ink da ole Frenchman got no game an' he no 
Stan' da gaff,* Come on; I'll be all a-ready." And he 
lay on the floor in the proper place. His nerve gave me 
confidence, and again I put the plug in his mouth, braced 
my back against the logs and my moccasins on his 
shoulders. Carefully pushing the "pullicans" down as 
far as I could get them, I gripped the handles, straight- 
ened my legs, and v^ith a snap the tooth came out and my 
head made a tunk on the log behind that seemed hard 
enough to have left a dent in either head or log. An- 
toine jumped up and yelled with joy. He took the tooth 
and threw it in the fire, saying a verse in his French 
patois which I did not understand, and after a comfort- 
ing pipe we went to bed. 

Spring came. The melting snows filled the streams. 
The drumming call of the woodpeckers on a dead tree 
sounded frequently, and the thunder of the cock par- 
tridge or ruffed grouse was frequent. Ducks flew up 
and down the stream, and the snow in places was not a 
foot deep. Antoine said: "I'll tole you. Wen you go 
on you' line it's las' time to-morrer, an' you bring in all-a 
steel trap an' let down all-a dead-fall. Da fur he get 
loose an' begin to shed, an' it's no use to stay here longer 
w'en you no get da prime skin. We go home. I t'ink; 
yes?" 

I ran my line for the last time, and came in and packed 
up for the home trip. Our packs were arranged, and 
were not as heavy as on the up trip. The provisions' 
were about gone, and the furs were dry and light, so we 
only had to make two trips instead of four from our cabin 
to the boat. 



*The expression "stand the gaff" was a relic of Antoine'9 cock-fight- 
ing days in Canada, and when he wished to imply that,a man had no grit 
he would say, ""He no«tan' da. gaff." 



248 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

Our provisions and cooking utensils with one rifle 
were taken on the first trip, and the furs on the second. 
The otter skins had been stretched on long "shakes" 
split by Antoine's axe; the other skins, except those of 
the two wolverines, the deer and bear skins, were 
"cased" and had been stretched on forked twigs, and 
therefore the flat hides made a large, broad pack, which 
was more difficult to get through the forest than the more 
valuable furs, which were cased. Just here it has oc- 
curred to me that there are technical terms used in the 
above that a small boy in the back seats might not under- 
stand, and for his benefit I will say that a "flat hide" is 
one that is split on the belly as a butcher skins an animal. 
Fine furs are "cased," i. e., only cut on the hinder edge 
of the hindlegs, and the skin drawn ofif over the head, 
leaving it like a mitten without a thumb and wrong side 
out — that is, with the fur inside. 

There was a feeling of regret at leaving the cabin, 
even though it was for home. It had been a home to us, 
and Antoine fastened up the door, saying: "S'pose we'll 
come nex' wint'. Who knows? Wen we come we 
gotta da good ole shanty. Come on." And we turned 
our backs to our winter home. We stopped a day at the 
boat to soak it up and swell the seams, and stowed our 
furs .and provisions under the two tarpaulins, and cast 
loose. The Bad Ax was swollen, and the current was 
swift. There was no expenditure of muscle in rowing, 
but there was an anxiety lest pole or paddle should fail 
and wreck us on a bend or a riffle. Some of the latter, 
which we had to make a portage round in the fall, we 
could shoot now, with more or less ri^k. When we 
reached the Wisconsin River we camped, and felt that all 
danger was over. It was plain sailing after this. We 
killed five mallards with our rifles, and that gave us 



ANTOINE GARDAPEE. 249 

plenty of fresh duck, and we caught a large pike by 
trolHng a minnow. Next day we merely guided our 
boat down the river and into the Mississippi, and after 
one more night out the Father of Waters brought us to 
Dubuque, some eighteen miles below Potosi, where An- 
toine had a bachelor's cabin and I had dearer ties. 

When we tied up at the wharf at Dubuque and went 
ashore we met Frank Neaville, and learned that all our 
loved ones were well. Frank went home that night, and 
carried the news of our arrival. There were serveral fur 
buyers about Dubuque, and they came to see us. I was 
for selling to the first one, but Antoine would not have 
it. The buyers came down, and handled our furs and bid 
on them, and finally they were sold for cash one morn- 
ing. There was a steamer to go up in the afternoon 
which would run up the Grant River to Potosi. I woul'd 
go on that, but Antoine had struck some Canuck friends 
and had got drunk, and I did not want to leave him with 
the chance of his being robbed by those thieves which 
then infested the river towns, and I went in search of 
him. I got him on board the boat with one of his friends 
and gave the steward a good tip to entertain them, and 
before Antoine knew where he was he found himself 
ashore at La Fayette, the landing for Potosi, with the 
major portion of his winter's earnings in his pocket. 

Once during the next summer Antoine came to jne, 
and made me a proposition to go down in Louisiana and 
trap next winter. He said that fur was plenty there, and 
in the spring we would take our skins to St. Paul and 
sell them to some green fur buyers, who would think 
they were Northern furs. I did not do it, but will tell 
you where I went the next winter later on. 

My good friend, Hon. J. W. Seaton, of Potosi, Wis., 
whom I knew in the days of which I am writing, sends 



250 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

me this note in response to a question: "I can give you 
but little information about Antoine Gardapee, the 
French trapper you went North with the winter you 
write about. I remember you both very well, and the 
fact of your going up on the Bad Ax the year before 
Tom Davies, and you went with the surveying party 
when Henry Neaville froze his feet; but I can't recall 
what became of Gardapee further than this: He ran a 
private ferry on the Mississippi River from Cassville, 
Wis., to the mouth of Turkey River, la., some years after 
you left Potosi. The generation in which he lived has 
passed away — the trapper, hunter and Indian have gone 
to the happy hunting grounds, and have left scarce a 
trace behind them; their names, places, kindred and 
friends are alike forgotten, and the pall of oblivion hangs 
over their resting-place." 

There seems to be nothing to be added .to the very 
good obituary note of Judge Seaton. 



SERGEANT FRANK NEAVILLE. 

FISH, 'coons and pawpaws. 

THE snow had left the south side of the hills, and 
there were evidences of spring overhead and 
underfoot when I parted with Antoine, he to 
visit some friends up the river and I to settle down in Po- 
tosi to civilized life. To get shaved again, to sleep in a 
bed and renew acquaintance with a potato after a winter 
in the woods, was an agreeable change. Few men who 
have once lived the life of a hunter and trapper ever care 
more for civilization than to keep on its outside edge, 
and they move on as it drives them to seek new fields. 
I imagine such men find it dull in summer, for they are 
seldom reading men, and when fur is not in season their 
lives must be monotonous. I soon dropped into my old 
way of life in the quaint little mining village of Potosi. 

"Goin' a-fishin?" asked Frank Neaville, as he saw 
me selecting some fishing tackle in one of the stores. 
"Henry has a new boat, and he's goin' to take it down to 
the landing soon; maybe you can get him to go to-mor- 
row; you know he's always ready for a fish or a hunt, no 
matter what's goin' on." 

We walked down to the hotel kept by the father of 
these boys, and found Henry in the backyard putting a 
painter into a ring in the bow of a new boat and making 
a neat eye-splice in it, for Henry could do many such 
things when he chose. "Hello, Henry!" said I, "you've 
got a nice sharpie there, but in our talks since I came 
down from the Bad Ax you haven't mentioned it." 

251 



252 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

"What's that name you called the boat?" 

"A sharpie. What do you call it?" 

"I call it a skiff, and it is a skiff; sharpie is some of 
your New York language, I suppose; did you ever hear 
of a skiff?" 

"Yes, and they are two different boats in the New 
York language, but we won't fight about that. I want 
to go fishing to-morrow, and if you want to try the new 
shar — skiff, I mean, just fill her full of water to swell the 
seams and get her on the wagon in the morning; that's 
all." 

Frank called attention to the fact that there was room 
for three, and intimated that he would go if his company 
was earnestly desired. 

"Frank," replied his brother, "you know that you're 
the durn'dest fool in a boat that lives in Wisconsin. Last 
year you upset us when we were coming down Swift 
Sloo by grabbing a branch to look after some wounded 
bird, and we had to stop all night on the island and be 
eaten by mosquitoes because Fred's rifle was in the bot- 
tom of the sloo. We don't want any more of that funny 
business, and you had better stay home." Then turning 
to me, Henry explained: "Frank's all right to weigh out 
sugar and coffee in a grocery, and he can figure up how 
many papers of tacks would balance a pound of nails ; but 
you had a sample of him last year; he hasn't got good, 
sound sense, like a mule, for a mule can take care of him- 
self any time, and wouldn't dump us all in the drink to 
look at a pelican. If you can stand him, all right; I 
won't object." 

Then it was Frank's innings. He was the younger 
but larger of the two, and he replied: "Henry is the 
bright boy of the family, and very few families have more 
than one bright boy, if they're so fortunate as to have 



SERGEANT FRANK NEAVILLE. 253 

even one. He is the oldest, and there are several little 
fellows growing up, and if I'm not as brilliant as Henry 
I can't help it; but I hope some of the little fellows may 
come near his high standard. I don't want to go if I'm 
not wanted." And he turned ofif, and went into the 
house. 

This was the first time that I had seen Frank resent 
Henry's good-natured chaff, and I hurried after him and 
brought him back. Said I: "Henry, I want Frank to 
go with us, and, confound you, you want him to go, but 
your temptation to roast him over that upset is fun for 
you; but Frank doesn't like it. As a student of Shakes- 
peare, you will remember that somewhere he says that a 
joke requires a good listener, or something of the kind, 
to make it go. Frank thinks you are bearing too hard 
on him for his mistake, and it's time to let up." 

Henry laughed and said: "Frank never knows a joke 
when he hears it; he wouldn't know one if he found it in 
his soup. What Shakespeare said was: 'A jest's pros- 
perity lies in the ear of him who hears it, never in the 
tongue of him that makes it,' but if Frank wants to go 
fishing with us, all right; I've no objection, and in fact 
would like to have him go; but since the time when we 
slept out on the island I have gone fishing a dozen times, 
and he has never asked to go. I think he likes your 
company. Come along, Frank; I only wanted to knock 
a little fun out of you, and you go off mad." Frank 
winked at me ; he was not angry the least bit, but this was 
his joke on his brother. 

In the morning we walked behind the wagon which 
carried the boat to the river, for it had a load of lead. I 
took my rifle along, because I wanted some meat, either 
of duck or hog, or both. As related in my sketch of 
Henry, there were hogs on the islands, and I had bought 



254: MEN 1 HAVE FISHED WITH. 

an interest in them. I also had several cane "poles," as 
we called them, and loaned one to each of the boys. I 
was inclined to be a "dude" sportsman in that early day, 
if we interpret that abused term to mean a man who likes 
to own the best things that he can get, and who will pay 
a quarter of a dollar for a light natural cane in preference 
to using a heavy sapling cut in the woods to be thrown 
away after using. In fact, I would to-day, if not then, 
rather be a "Sunberry Fisher" than his opposite. In 
these days of game hogs and of men who fish for count 
and brag, I say with due deliberation and with full knowl- 
edge of the ridicule to which a man with fine fishing 
tackle is subjected if he is unsuccessful in a day's fishing, 
that I would rather be in his place and own tackle to be 
proud of than to be the proverbial boy with an alder pole, 
a "letter in the post-ofiEice," and a big string of trout; but 
the fact is that a good angler with good tackle can beat 
the boy, if he knows the stream well. 

With the man who loves fishing for itself and not for 
the fish, the capture of a record-breaking string is of no 
consequence. The old story of the "funny man" catches 
the popular fancy. To-day when I fish for trout I use a 
rod which cost $35, and it is worth every cent of it. My 
reel, line and book of flies cost as much more, and on a 
trout stream there is no bare-footed farmer's boy with 
his alder pole and worm who can, day after day, take 
more trout than I or thousands of other anglers can. He 
might on an odd day, where he knew all the trout holes — 
but not as a rule. And if he did? Still I say: I would 
prefer to be the Sunberry Fisher who "caught nothing 
at all," for why do we prefer a gold watch to a silver one? 
It may keep no better time. We like elegant harness on 
our horses, but they pull the carriage no better than if 
tied to it with bits of rope. Now you young anglers can 



SERGEANT FRANK NEAVILLE. 255 

see just what I mean. There is pleasure to the sports- 
man in cleaning and caring for his rod and gun; he has 
a feeling of companionship for it — he gets to love it for 
the memories it brings, and to throw it aside after a fish- 
ing or shooting trip would be base ingratitude. There 
is a high and noble affection for old companions in the 
forest and on the stream, and the man who truly loves the 
sport for sport's sake, and not for the amount of meat he 
gets, cherishes the implements which aided him. Even 
a savage will ornament his pipe and his war club — but 
my pen is straying again, and has led me off from the 
story of this particular fishing trip. Let it go; the editor 
will probably "blue pencil" all the extraneous matter, 
and so we get back to the mouth of Grant River, Wis., 
in the spring of 1856, with the Neaville boys. 

Henry watched the boat after it was launched and 
seemed satisfied with its balance in the water, and we 
rowed off to one of the islands which are so numerous 
along the great Mississippi at this point. When we 
pulled up on the island Henry asked: "Where do you 
want to fish? Here you can get swift water or still 
water, just as you want it." A bend where water plants 
were just struggling to get to the top of the water caught 
my eye, and it looked like a good spot for pike, so I 
replied: "I've got some small minnow hooks, and if we 
stop right here and get about fifty small fish, we may get 
some good pike over in that bend among the weeds." 
The result was similar to that recorded in the sketch 
entitled, "The Brockway Boys." Skittering for pike or 
pickerel was a new thing, and all new methods are dis- 
trusted. The old woman who saw a patent machine for 
milking cows looked at it and declared, "The old- 
fashioned way is the best;" and in this case she was 
right. Henry did not say a word against it, but, like 



256 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

William Brockway, he thought there might be a thing or 
two that he had not learned, but Frank said: 

"When you put one of these little fish on your hook, 
and let it down in the water where the big fish live, you 
may get one; but to 'skitter' a little fish over the surface 
and scare all the big ones below looks like foolishness, 
but if you say it's a good plan we'll try it. Mother will 
expect some fish for breakfast, and I want to go over in 
a tree top and get some crappies. I don't want to go 
back without a thing." 

Henry had listened to all this, and after some delib- 
eration said: "Let's land Frank in a tree top, and then go 
over and try for the pike. Mother can't have any of our 
fish for breakfast to-morrow, because we've got provis- 
ions for two days, and we propose to stay and eat 'em up, 
if Frank doesn't see another wounded pelican and upset 
the boat. Yes, Frank, you get in that tree top and fish for 
crappies, and we'll stop and get you day after to-morrow. 
We'll leave you grub enough, and there's a good big limb 
to straddle, so you'll be comfortable until we come back. 
The mosquitoes are not out yet, and you'll be very happy. 
If the limb gets to be uncomfortable, you can change and 
sit on it side-saddle fashion." 

Frank looked at me and asked: "Are you going to 
stay out to-night and not go home until Saturday morn- 
ing?" 

"That was our arrangement, and I thought you un- 
derstood it; when the axe was put in the wagon you 
asked what it was for, and Henry told you it was to cut 
wood for camp, and we would not need a fire if we were 
going home to-night; Fm sorry if " 

"No, don't be sorry about me; Til stay out as long as 
any of you if you'll only make Henry let up about that 
accident last summer. If he doesn't stop it I'll duck him 



SERGEANT FRANK NEAVILLE. 257 

again, when I can do it without wetting you. Every 
man, woman and child in Potosi knows about that upset 
of the boat, and that's enough, I don't care about it 
since I said I was sorry, but all winter, while you were 
away, he would grin as he passed me and quote from 
Byron : 

'Then rose from sea to sky the wild farewell — 
Then shriek'd the timid, and stood still the brave; 

Then some leap'd overboard with fearful yell, 
As eager to anticipate their grave.' 

"He used to spout that in school, and he thought it 
would annoy me, but it didn't — well, not as much as he 
thought it did." 

Frank was more sensitive to Henry's exasperating 
nagging than he would own. It was not so much 
Henry's quotation from "Don Juan" as the "grin" which 
accompanied it, and by constant repetition Frank had 
become sensitive, as "the touched needle trembles at the 
pole," and this sort of thing is not conducive to con- 
genial fishing. I told Frank that Henry would find 
some other outlet for his humor. When Henry came 
back with some minnows, after we had landed, I took 
him one side, and Frank's peace of mind about the upset 
was undisturbed afterward. 

We caught some minnows and skittered for pike, or 
"pickerel," as we called them in New York, and took six 
or seven that day — fish that would weigh from three to 
six pounds. We had no reels — we weren't up to that 
in those days — but we had a ring on the top of the rod, 
and gave line or hauled in through it. Once Frank 
struck a big one. He yelled: "Come and help me! 
He'll get away! The line is cutting my hand," etc., and 



258 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

I took his coat-tail in my palm and checked the fish. 
When it was safe in the boat Frank drew a long breath 
and said: "Well, I'll be durned if that fish won't weigh 
twenty pounds. If you hadn't helped me he would have 
broken something, or I would have been pulled over- 
board. Yes, by jing! He'll weigh twenty-five pounds." 

My own estimate was that the pike might weigh about 
ten pounds, but what was the use of putting a damper on 
the boy's enthusiasm? My new mode of skittering a 
minnow on the surface had won ; his skepticism had van- 
ished, and it was a triumph for both. We went ashore, 
rolled a log down to the water, and dug out a basin 
behind it, where our fish could be kept alive, their splash- 
ings in the water serving to circulate it through the small 
openings at each end of the log; for we didn't want to 
kill our game until we started for home. 

The day was a fine one, and the fishing was fair for 
those days; it would be called excellent, grand, to-day, 
and considering the high state of the river we did well. 
The bend where we fished was comparatively still water, 
just the place for pike, which prefer quiet nooks and 
ponds and avoid the quick waters. The geese had 
passed north, and so had the great bodies of swans and 
pelicans; but to our surprise a small flock of sandhill 
cranes went over us, high in the air and glistening in the 
sun. Most likely the last flock of the season. Frank 
called attention to them and wondered what they were. 

"Sandhill cranes," said Henry. 

Frank grinned and replied: "I never saw such a fel- 
low to know everything as Henry is. That flock of birds 
are too high up to see their shape, and he'll tell you just 
what they are. He thinks he can play anything on me. 
What do you think they are?" 

"Just as Henry named them. Henry is more of a 



SERGEANT FRANK NEAVILLE. 259 

hunter, naturalist, or whatever you are a mind to call 
him," said I. "He notices things which you don't see. 
Watch the flight of that flock. See ! They all flap their 
wings in unison, and then all stop at once and sail, seem- 
ing to follow the 'stroke oar.' Did you ever see any 
other birds do that?" 

"I never noticed them. It is queer, though, how they 
all work together that way. Don't geese fly like that?" 

"Oh, no; a goose is a heavy-bodied bird that couldn't 
sail a minute up there; it's hard work for a goose from 
the time it starts until it stops. If you watch the flight 
of different kinds of ducks and the way they flock you 
will soon be able to tell what they are. There goes a 
dozen mallards; see how dififerently they fly from the 
bluebills coming up behind them. I can't tell you the 
difference, but you can see it." 

"Well, by jing! That's so. I thought all ducks flew 
alike. I can tell ducks from crows by the way they fly, 
but never noticed them as close as that. Henry, old boy, 
you know a heap more than people think you do; they 
haven't found you out yet." 

Henry made no reply to this, but suggested that it 
was time to go ashore and make camp. It was quite a 
job to find a camping spot on the island. It had been 
well soaked in the spring freshets, and the lower leaves 
of the underbrush were covered with dried sediment, 
where they had been submerged. Henry knew these isl- 
ands well, and led us to a knoll near a pond which was 
dry in summer, but was filled now, and afforded a good 
feeding place for ducks. We had hauled the boat well 
up, and tied it fast in case the river should rise in the 
night. We made a little bough house and a bed of dry 
leaves, made a pot of coffee and ate supper before dark. 

As I remember the geography after an absence of 



260 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

forty years, it is some five or six miles from shore to shore 
near Potosi, the main channel of the river being on the 
Iowa side. On the Wisconsin shore the Grant River 
came in, and there was a lot of wooded islands along 
there with channels of all degrees of swiftness between 
them. In the days of which I write the ducks congre- 
gated here in great numbers in spring and fall. We 
were well out, and preferred to stay on the island than to 
row over to the mainland. After supper I told Henry' 
that I had never slept on any of these islands in duck time, 
and if he did not object we would not hght our night 
fire until after dark, so that we could see the ducks come 
in. It was about half an hour before sundown, and some 
of the flocks began to arrive, and such a babel! The 
heavy mallards would come in, back wind with their 
wings and drop down with a splash, and then the loud- 
voiced females would raise a din. Swift bluebills and 
butterballs would rush over our heads, circle around and 
settle down. The swiftest of all ducks, the little green- 
winged teal, would suddenly appear from nowhere, and 
splash down into the water without circling about, com- 
ing into it much as a stone would. The high-voiced 
widgeon, the bass of the frogs, the heavy quack of the 
mallard and the lighter one of the bluewing, which 
sounded like an echo, and the curious burr! of the blue- 
bill made a concert to be remembered. The pond might 
have covered three acres, and two thousand ducks, at 
least, rested on it that night. We did not try to shoot 
any, for we thought we could get what we wanted any 
time. After dark we lighted our fire, but it did not seem 
to disturb the ducks. Our talk was not heard in the 
racket they kept up, and we turned in on our bed of 
leaves. Frank said that several birds or flocks flew 
around our fire in the night, but Henry and I slept too 



SERGEANT FRANK NEAVILLE. 261 

soundly to hear them. Such Hfe was new to Frank, and 
he didn't sleep much. 

A rifle shot awoke me in the morning, and there was 
a thundering sound of rising ducks. Henry had killed a 
mallard, and then the problem was to get the bird. The 
shore was soft black mud, deep and treacherous, and al- 
though the duck was not over thirty feet away, and stone 
dead, it was no easy matter to get it. Frank and I ad- 
vised him not to attempt it, but he vowed he'd have that 
duck "if it took a leg." He began to gather driftwood, 
brush and limbs and threw them in to make a bridge, and 
as he was in earnest we helped him. When he thought 
his bridge was long enough, so that from its end he could 
reach the duck with a pole, he started. I whispered to 
Frank a caution not to speak to him, and we watched. 
The passage was a success; he reached his pole for the 
duck, something rolled, and he was floundering in the 
mud. There was only a couple of inches of water where 
he was, and as he struggled he sank to his waist. We 
could not tell how much further he might sink if he 
struggled. 

I called to him: "Don't move or you may go deeper; 
keep perfectly still, and we'll get you out. Is there a 
grapevine on this island?" 

"Not a vine," said he, cool as a cucumber. "Take 
your time; I won't stir." 

He was over twenty feet from sound footing, and we 
cut a sapling and shoved the end to him and pulled until 
he could hold on no longer. He let go so suddenly that 
we sat down. He had bent forward so that the mud 
covered his breast. Frank began to fear for his brother, 
but I had another plan. I cut a green cottonwood, or 
perhaps it was an aspen, which had a fork at about 
twenty-five feet, and these two limbs were of an inch or 



262 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

more in diameter. These limbs I crossed and twisted, 
making a loop big enough to go over Henry's shoulders, 
and lashed them firmly together with strips of bark at 
several points. With this around him and the grip of his 
hands, together with the use of his legs, we pulled him to 
solid ground, the mud being plowed up by his shirt collar 
so that his clothing was filled inside and out. I remained 
to get breakfast, while Frank went with Henry over to 
the cleaner waters of the sloo, where he washed himself 
and his clothes, while Frank returned for breakfast for 
himself and brother. When we reached him his gar- 
ments were all hung in the sun, but he was shivering, 
for the morning was cool. Frank gave him his trousers 
and sat in his drawers, and I loaned a coat. 

After he had some hot coffee and breakfast he said: 
"The hogs gobbled all our fish last night, Frank's big 
pike and all," and we found it to be so. Hogs' tracks 
were numerous in and about our pool, and portions of 
fish were scattered about. Frank said: "Well, I'll be 
durned! That pike would weigh about forty pounds, 
and was bigger than one Bill Patterson shot up in Grant 
River last fall." 

"Yes," said Henry, "Bill's fish weighed eleven and a 
half pounds on Mallet's scales; I saw it weighed, and if 
yours weighed forty pounds there was a little difiference 
of twenty-eight and a half pounds ; not much, to be sure, 
but still a difiference." 

"Don't you think my fish was as big as Bill's?" 

"Not quite," said Henry. "I think your pike would 
weigh nearly as much as his if you fed him half a dozen 
pounds of shot when no one was looking." 

Frank appealed to me. I replied : "I am not as good 
a judge of the weights of fish as Henry is, and I didn't 
see Bill Patterson's pike. I am of the opinion, how- 



SERGEANT FRANK NEAVILLE. 263 

ever, that if your fish was bigger than Bill's the scales 
would show that it weighed more, but as the hogs have 
eaten it there is nothing left but the memory of it, and 
you know that we can't weigh memory. Still I remem- 
ber thinking at the time that your fish would go full 
twenty pounds if he had been left to grow for a few 
years." 

"I see," said Frank; "if Henry was as wise as Daniel 
Webster he would know just as much. All right! We 
are three great sportsmen, and have fished one day and 
shot a duck the next morning, and have only our mem- 
ories to show for it. Not a scale nor a feather; 'though 
I s'pose Henry will count the duck he shot and the duck 
he had in the mud as two ducks, and both were lost. 
No; I'll be durned if we don't take home that mallard, 
for Henry said he'd get it or lose a leg. How's that, 
Henry; which leg will we take off if you don't get that 
duck?" 

Henry was busy getting into his half-dried clothes 
and said : "Frank, you may have that duck." 

We fished that day, and shot ducks with my rifle in 
the evening, slept out next night, and took home in the 
morning eight mallards and all the pike and crappies we 
could carry. 

I regret that we cannot print portraits of these boys. 
I have daguerreotypes of them, taken in i860, sent me 
by their younger brother, Carlos E. Neaville, now living 
at Brodhead, Wis. The photo-engraver says that they 
cannot be reproduced with any effect because of the lack 
of shadows. Henry was about five feet six inches, broad- 
shouldered ; a long, oval face, with a profuse head of dark 
hair, which came down to a point in the middle of his 
forehead. Frank, the younger, was larger. His fore- 
head was broader and his ears were lower. What I mean 



264: MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

by this is that my frequent comment on the picture of a 
man is: "There is much (or Httle) of his head above his 
ears." Just what ethnological value this has let others 
say. Frank did show evidences of the mercantile in- 
stinct, for Judge Seaton, now living in Potosi, speaks 
highly of him as an employee of his during the few years 
that he was a merchant. But Henry, he was the com- 
panionable fellow; no business for him if he could help it. 
He and I were alike in this respect. The woods and the 
streams were good enough for us, and the habits of their 
denizens were of more importance than dollars. What 
poet has ever written in praise of the slave to lucre? 
There I go again — ofif the track. A dollar is a big thing 
when you don't own one. The boy said: "Salt makes 
your potatoes taste bad when you don't put any on." 

Once a drunken miner lost his purse in the streets of 
Potosi, and Frank found it. Henry, John Nicholas, 
Frank and I were talking about it with the old post- 
master, Mr. Kaltenbach, when the miner came up asking 
if anyone had found his money. "Yes," said Henry; 
"we found it. How much was there in it?" The man 
called Henry a thief and struck him. About the same 
instant Frank handed the miner one under the left jaw 
that paralyzed him. We took the man into Jo. Hall's 
livery stable, and it took Dr. Gibson over an hour to 
bring him around. Henry scared Frank into thinking 
he had killed a man, and Frank went over to Constable 
Darcy and gave himself up. 

As the summer waned and the first chill days of Sep- 
tember approached Frank asked me: "Did you ever eat 
a pawpaw?" 

"No; what is a pawpaw?" 

"They are a fine fruit, and grow on a small tree. They 
are shaped like a cucumber and are like custard. There 



SERGEANT FRANK NEAVILLE. 265 

is a pawpaw grove down by the river. They'll be ripe 
now in a few days, and we'll make up a party and go 
'coon hunting. 'Coons like 'em, and you can always 
start one in the pawpaws when they're ripe." 

I had seen the trees when out after wild plums, which 
were plenty in that part of Wisconsin, and were large and 
excellent, but the pawpaws were merely wondered at 
and passed. I think there was a dozen in our party when 
we started for 'coons on a moonlight night. Except 
Frank and Henry, Charley Guyon, John Clark and Bill 
Patterson, the names are forgotten. Half a dozen dogs, 
some of no particular breed and others that seemed to be 
of all breeds mixed without regard to proportion, went 
along as a necessary part of the outfit. 

I tasted my first pawpaw, but have yet to taste the 
second one. The others ate them with a relish. All I 
remember is that the fruit was shaped something like a 
banana, but shorter, and had the taste of a raw potato 
ground into a paste; its seeds were as large as a lima 
bean. Of course I might learn to like them, but Potosi 
boys acquired the taste in infancy. 

Soon the dogs remarked that a 'coon had gone off, 
because it did not care to eat pawpaws while such a noisy 
crowd invaded the woods ; for in hunting 'coons the more 
noise the better, as it puts them afoot, while if you are 
still they will squat on a limb at your approach. The 
'coon soon treed, and hid so that it could not be shot. 
John Clark's axe on one side and Henry Neaville's on 
the other soon dropped the tree, and the dogs made a 
rush. We had a fire started to light up the conflict, but 
couldn't see a thing in that tree top but a mass of fighting 
dogs. Cheers and yells from the men encouraged the 
dogs. "Go in, Tige!" "Shake him up. Skip!" "Hang 
to him. Buster!" and such cries cheered on the dogs. 



266 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

"There's two of 'em!" yelled John Clark, as two knots 
of dogs were seen, but it turned out that one knot was 
merely a little scrapping of a couple of dogs among them- 
selves, perhaps occasioned by one dog's jealousy of the 
other fellow. The 'coon broke away and ran up a limb, 
and a rifle ball dropped him. And then such a row! 
Every dog had hold of him, and a man had hold of every 
dog's tail, and each dog got a kick in the ribs to admon- 
ish him that a fallen foe should be respected. I thought 
of the old story: "Never strike a man when he is down," 
said Mulcahy. "Never," replied O'Hooligan; "just 
sock the boots to him." 

The 'coon was not badly mangled after all this; the 
dogs were chewed up much worse. It reminded me of 
Corny Lannigan, one of my father's ship carpenters, 
when father said to him one morning: "Cornelius, you 
must have had some trouble last night; your eyes are 
blacked, and your nose is all plastered over." 

"Yes, Captain," said Corny; "there was a little mis- 
understanding, but you ought to go up to the hospital 
and see the other fellow;" and I then remembered read- 
ing that the great General, Pyrrhus, once said: "Another 
such a victory and I am ruined." 

Another 'coon was started, and was finally found in a 
tree by the water, whose base had been so washed that it 
leaned out over Grant River. After lighting a fire and 
consulting as to the mode of attack, Frank offered to go 
up the leaning tree and shake the 'coon off, while the 
dogs were to be held so as to see him drop, and then be 
loosed to tackle him in the water. The plan worked 
well. The 'coon dropped at the first shake, and so did 
Frank. The dogs rushed in, but no man dared shoot, 
and after a short fight in the water and on the other shore 
the dogs came back, and we went home. 



SERGEANT FRANK NEAVILLE. 267 

"I tell you," said John Clark, "it takes an almighty 
good dog to whip an old he 'coon, and not one in a thou- 
sand can do it. Sometimes a little she 'coon will give a 
dozen such ornery dogs as we've got a good tussle and 
get away." 

"Look a-here, John Clark," said Charley Guyon to 
his brother-in-law; "do you call my dog ornery?" And 
so we talked on the way home. 

"Ornery" is Wisconsinese for "ordinary," but has no 
such meaning. It implies baseness; it is a term of re- 
proach. An "ornery cuss" means a low-down fellow, 
and an "ornery dog" is one of no possible account. If a 
man in New York should describe me as an ordinary 
man, he would hit it right; an every-day sort of man, not 
distinguished for anything in particular; but if a Wiscon- 
sin man stigmatizes you as "ornery" he means another 
thing, and if he is not a corn-fed fellow you should "let 
go your left and follow it up with your right." 

I have already told how Frank and Henry went out 
with the Second Wisconsin Infantry, and both were 
killed in Virginia. 

"Sound, sound the clarion, fill the fife! 

To all the sensual world proclaim, 
One crowded hour of glorious life 

Is worth an age without a name." 



T A Y-B U N-A N E-J E-G A Y. 

IN NORTHERN MINNESOTA — FISHING THROUGH ICE. 

WE named him — Henry Neaville and I. We 
had to call him something to distinguish him 
from other Indians who begged about our 
camp, and we did not think the name he gave as his own, 
Ah-mik-wash, "a beaver house," described him as well as 
the one we concocted, which means: "He-who-takes-so- 
much-at-a-mouthful." Ours was a perfect fit, and before 
long I'll tell you how he got it, 

Mr. James McBride, then living in Potosi, Wis., but 
who lived in Washington, D. C, for the past thirty years, 
until his death, which occurred last March, had a con- 
tract to subdivide some townships in what is now Crow 
Wing county, Minn. The township lines had been run, 
each township being six miles square, and these were to 
be crossed by lines a mile apart into square miles, with 
the half miles marked on both north and east lines. The 
northern line was near where Brainerd now stands, the 
Mississippi River was the west boundary, and the survey 
took in the village of Crow Wing, which was then an 
Indian trading post. 

The party included Thomas Davies, now living at 
British Hollow, Wis.; Pierre Gibbs, of Dubuque, la.; 

Crosby, I think originally from Boston; Henry R. 

Neaville, and the writer, both of Potosi. We started by 
steamboat from Dubuque, in September, 1856 — I forget 
the day, but Tom Davies thinks it was the 12th — with 
two horses, wagon, pack saddles, tent and camp equipage 
and a supply of provisions that surprised me: Half a 

268 



TAY-BUN-ANE-JE-GAY. 269 

dozen barrels of flour, three barrels of pork, a ten-gallon 
keg of molasses, one-gallon keg of vinegar, sugar, beans, 
rice, grain for the horses, and all in profusion. At St. 
Paul half the provisions were stored, and we took a 
wagon load, all but the driver walking up the big military 
road that led to Fort Ripley, about one hundred miles 
north of St. Paul. Our first night out we camped on 
Rum River, and Henry Neaville tasted it and said: 
"Hum! it's nothing but water." From Fort Ripley to 
Crow Wing the road was not so good. JMaking a base 
of supplies at the trading post, we struck into the woods, 
and afterward Tom Davies drove back to St. Paul for the 
food left there. We took camp and grub on our backs. 
At the place to begin work I made camp, and Neaville 
went back for more supplies. There was about four 
inches of snow, and this lay without thaw or addition 
until we left the woods late in December. 

I had expected to furnish game for camp, and took 
my rifle, naturally thinking that this far-off region 
abounded in game as the Bad Ax country did, where I 
spent the previous winter. I lugged that rifle for two 
months, and only killed four ruffed grouse. I saw one 
deer and two rabbits, but did not get a shot at them. 
The country was destitute of game. Indians swarmed 
all over it. At Crow Wing the great trail from Lake 
Superior crossed the one coming down from the Red 
River of the North, and the trading post was visited by 
scores of Indians every day from each of the four 
branches of the trails. 

It was on the second day out. Henry had returned 
quickly, as we were not yet far from our base, and I was 
baking bread and getting dinner for two, as the linemen 
had theirs with them, and would not return until night, 
when in walked the American whose name heads this 



270 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

chapter. As before stated, that was not his name then, 
but he didn't know it. He squatted by the fire and 
grunted: "Bon jour, Nidgee," a salutation of mixed 
French and Ojibway that all those Indians used. Henry 
returned his salute, and said to him in Ojibway that he 
was welcome, 

"Where did you learn to speak that?" I asked. 

"Off up the Wisconsin River with a logging party one 
winter. Why?" 

"Nothing, only I was surprised, that's all. If I'd 
known you spoke it we could have knocked lots of fun 
out of your brother Frank on our fishing trips. But 
you have made this man welcome, and that he will inter- 
pret to mean free feeding, perhaps all winter, and as I am 
camp keeper, McBride will ask questions if we feed too 
many. He doesn't like an Indian, and told me not to 
have them hanging around camp, so don't do this any 
more." 

"All right," said Henry; "I spoke without thinking. 
If there's lots of pork boiled let's fill this fellow up and 
see how much he can hold." 

I told him that I had boiled enough pork for all hands 
to have cold to-night, but if his guest ate half of it I 
would boil more. 

I made all ready, and our aboriginal American an- 
nounced himself as Ah-mik-wash, or "Beaver House." 
Henry remarked: "He differs somewhat from a beaver 
house, and as to the last part of his name I'll bet he 
hasn't washed in ten years." 

"Henry, keep quiet!" Then tapping my breast I 
said: "Kego-e-kay," and then touching Henry, intro- 
duced him as Ke-tim-ish-ke (He-is-lazy). Old Beaver 
House grunted, and I served an equal portion of bread, 
baked beans and pork to each. There was enough for 



TAY-BUN-ANE-JE-GAY. 271 

Henry and me at the first serving, and long before we 
had finished I piled another big chunk on the plate of our 
guest. 

"Henry," said I, "your friend's doctor has recom- 
mended him to take something for his appetite, and he's 
struck the place to get the prescription put up. Just see 
what he takes at a mouthful, and how he swallows it 
without sticking a tooth in it! I'll limit him to the pork 
and bread, for I'll be dingswizzled if I'll boil and bake 
any more beans!" 

Henry thought a minute — he was a meditative man 
and therefore a born angler — and said: "He is filling his 
beaver house for the winter, but he can swallow chunks 
of pork that would choke a deerhound. He must have a 
new name. These Injuns don't get a name early in life 
as we do, and when they get one it never sticks through 
as ours do, and we must name him anew. See that last 
chunk go down! Give him what there is left of the pork 
and put the rest away, and let's see him get away with 
what you had provided for six men to-night, in addition 
to what he has eaten." 

I will publicly confess to being a sinner if that Ojib- 
way, or "Chippewa," as his name has been corrupted, did 
not clean up every bit of the pork. There was no such 
discrimination between the component parts as was made 
by Jack Spratt and his wife. He removed the plate from 
his lap and said: "Koo-koosh, nish-ish-shin," or "Pork 
very good." 

While our guest sat by the fire in full enjoyment of 
physical comfort Henry and I concocted the new name 
for him, and this is the way we christened him. I said, 
leaving out as much of his tongue as possible: "You no 
Beaver House no more, you Tay-bun-ane-je-gay" (He- 
who-takes-so-much-at-a-mouthful). This name, which 



272 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

we evolved in a spirit of ridicule, was accepted by our 
simple-minded friend as a tribute to his prowess after he 
had scanned our faces and found no trace of levity, and 
he was so known, not only by us, but by his tribe. 

He had caught Henry's name, and smiled as much as 
an Indian can smile, but seemed in doubt about mine. 
Perhaps my pronunciation was at fault, for "kego" means 
fish, and also is a negative, as "do not," "never," "beware 
of saying," etc. Henry said: "We have many words 
which mean the same thing, and so have they. Old 
Swallow-'em-slick is in doubt. Show him your fish lines 
and he will know that you are a fisherman." 

When our guest had seen my tackle he pointed to me 
in pride at his understanding and touched my shoulder, 
saying: "Kego-e-kay." Then he proceeded to tell what 
great pike, "kinoje," could be caught in a small lake a 
short distance away, and we arranged to try it next day 
after the men had gone on the line. 

The ice was not thick, but would bear us well, for it 
was about the last of September or the first of October 
in that cold country, and this reminds me that McBride 
wanted to know about the winters in that region and 
asked a half-breed who spoke English how the weather 
was likely to be. He replied: "October, he pooty cole; 
November he cole as de dev'; and December, he col'er 
'an ." I had heard the name mentioned as a com- 
parison for heat frequently, and wondered what kind of 
a place the half-breed thought it might be. The snow 
had fallen since the lake froze, and we could not see the 
depth. I asked old Mouthful where there were springs 
and he showed us one, where we caught a lot of minnows. 

We cut holes and rigged about a dozen lines with tip- 
ups and waited. The holes froze over, and we cut them 
open, but no fish came to our lures. It was noon, and 



TAY-BUN-ANE-JE-GAY. 273 

not a pike, big or little, had sampled our minnows. We 
were like "Ye Sunberrye Fysher," our tackle was cor- 
rect, but the fish were either absent or — something else. 
It was time to eat. 

I asked Henry: "Do you think that old Mouthful, as 
you call him in shorthand, has brought us out here on a 
fool's errand? This lake should contain pike, lake trout, 
brook trout or perch, but we get no bites. The water 
is not very cold, or the ice would be thicker; the springs 
below keep the ice from getting too thick. Perhaps our 
friend is only playing it on us for his grub." 

"If I was sure of that," said Henry, "I would advise 
that we leave him, and go back and eat ours at camp, or 
sit down here and eat, and only give a little bite, so that 
he could not take so much at a mouthful." 

The luncheon was fairly divided. One of the tip-ups 
showed the flag, and Henry jumped and ran for it. The 
hook was bare ; a minnow had been taken. Old Mouth- 
ful had probably divined our thoughts, for he arose and 
said: "Kego-e-kay-e-mah," there are fish there. We let 
our lines lower down, but got no fish. It was time to go 
back to camp to prepare for the hungry linemen. Our 
new friend went with us ; it was evident that he was fond 
of our company — or our pork — it was not easy to tell 
which. He saw the men come in and eat their dinner, 
but got no invitation to join, for our chief did not wish 
to encourage Indians to hang round the camp. Two 
such men as He-who-takes-so-much-at-a-mouthful would 
breed a famine in our commissary in a short time. They 
would eat more than our six healthy white men, who 
had the abnormal appetite that comes with a life in the 
woods and active exercise in cold weather. The farm- 
er's expression, "I'm as hungry as a hired man," fell 
short of our appetites. 



274 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

We had a tin bake oven, made in flat sections for 
packing on a man's back, which, when set up before a 
camp-fire, flared out so as to reflect the heat from top and 
bottom on a bread pan, in which we not only baked 
bread, but beans, pork and 'coons. Imagine a yawning 
front of eighteen inches sloping to a back of five inches, 
in the middle of which was the pan, and you have the 
idea. Mixing soda and cream of tartar with the flour 
and then wetting it up — well! If you don't believe that 
I made the best bread that was ever baked on this planet 
just write to my compagnon du voyage, Thomas Davies. 
Mark the letter "private," because Tom has been married 
since that time, and he might not wish Mrs. Davies to see 
his reply; he is eating her biscuit now. Married men 
will appreciate this caution. 

Four men went on the line — McBride, the chief or 
compass man; one axe man to clear a place for him to 
see through and to blaze the line, and two chain men. 
There was then an extra man to bring supplies from our 
base, and he was in camp with me a great deal. Henry 
Neaville did most of this work, because he was a very 
good woodsman, and could find me when I moved camp. 
Sometimes we stayed several days in a place, and lines 
would be run in all directions. In the morning I would 
get an order to "Keep camp here to-day," or to move 
it. If moved, it might be "two miles east and one mile 
north," and then before sundown I would clang the cow 
bell, which we sometimes used on the horses when hob- 
bled. We used the horses to pack our camp at first 
while in the country of solid ground, but sent them to 
Crow Wing when we got into the swampy country, 
where the springy swamps were frozen enough to permit 
a man to travel safely without snowshoes, but would not 
hold the greater weight of a horse with its smaller foot. 



TAY-BUN-ANE-JE-GAY. 275 

It would have been almost impossible to run these lines 
before the swamps were frozen. I saw corner stakes set 
and "witness trees" marked, and when the man removed 
his hand from the top of the stake it fell. There were 
no stones to be found for markers ; but the trees told the 
story, and the exact place of the stake could be found. 

I can't say when it was that we met a train of Red 
River settlers on their way from Pembina — perhaps it 
was on our way up, but it was an event. We heard the 
creaking of their carts for at least ten miles before we 
met. There were eighteen carts in the train drawn by 
ponies, and not a bit of iron in the whole outfit! Not 
even a nail. The wheels had wooden tires held by 
wooden pins, and if one gave out there was the forest to 
furnish material. Some of the carts had a ham rind 
under the axle, but that was a foolish concession to the 
god of silence. The others shrieked and wailed like lost 
spirits, and miles before we met them we were wondering 
what could make such unearthly sounds. We halted 
and talked with the priest who was in charge of the ex- 
pedition, and seemed to be the only man in the party who 
could speak English. The other men were French, In- 
dians and half-breeds, and they spoke such a patois of 
mixed O jib way and Canadian French that Crosby 
couldn't understand a word, and he spoke Boston French 
fluently. The priest was a jolly old fellow, a well-read 
man who, it seemed to me, was wasting his life among a 
very dirty lot; but if he was contented we should be. I 
listened to him talk of his mission work, and of his hope 
that there would be a weekly mail up from St. Paul into 
his frozen region before many years. His people had 
sold their furs; the Hudson Bay Company had a 
monopoly of the trade in British America, and they 
brought nothing to sell. They were going to St. Paul 



276 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

to buy coffee, sugar, clothing, garden seeds and other 
things; but why they didn't buy of the company I don't 
know. His great good nature and hopefulness made 
him very interesting, for he was a good and lovable old 
man. Ah, me! If the camera and dry plates had been 
invented in those days, and I had owned an outfit, what 
treasures I would have to-day! 

Tom Davies went to St. Paul for the rest of the pro- 
visions early in October, and was gone ten days. Henry 
froze both his feet by riding on the hind end of the wagon 
with his feet hanging out after he had met Tom at Crow 
Wing, for we were still in a country where the wagon 
could be used. It was night and Henry had told Tom 
that Crosby was lost in the woods, and he hurried on at 
once because there were but three men on the line. They 
reached camp while we were breakfasting, but Henry 
could not stand. He had foolishly worn leather boots, 
while the rest had shoe-packs of elk-skin, soft and warm 
in dry weather. This reminds me to say that the In- 
dians about us wore moccasins of buffalo, which cost one 
dollar a pair at Crow Wing, but did not wear well. After 
the men were gone on the line I took Henry's boots off, 
and put his feet into snow and by chafing them got the 
blood started. He joked about my cutting his feet off, 
and his missing the dancing that winter, as they swelled 
so that there seemed to be danger; but in a week he was 
able to walk, and by cutting one boot for a favorite toe 
he was soon ready for duty. 

I kept up half-hourly rifle shots and cow-bell ringing 
for Crosby, and he came into camp, having been out one 
night without matches or blankets. He had kept from 
freezing by walking, and had got turned around and fol- 
lowed the blazed lines the wrong way. Hunger had 
made him colder, and he had thrown a stick at a bird. 



TAY-BUN-ANE-JE-GAY. 277 

probably a Canada jay, hoping to kill it and eat it raw. 
He had an appetite of great length, breadth and thick- 
ness, one worthy of the man whose name heads this 
article. 

Gibbs was very fond of staying in camp with me when 
Henry went on the line and he could do it. An excuse 
to mend his trousers or other clothing served. He was 
the youngest of the party and fresh from school. He 
knew all about Indians, for he had read about them, but 
was curious to study them in the woods. He was a gold 
mine to old Mouthful or any other Indian. When he 
offered a pipeful of tobacco he handed over a whole plug 
of Navy or such part of one as he had, and when the 
Indian cut a pipeful and kept the rest Gibbs thought that 
he didn't mean to do it, but couldn't ask for its return. 
He continually gave me advice on the subject of getting 
on with them, and I enjoyed it. Once as we sat down 
to a midday bite Gibbs passed the pan of hot biscuit to 
old Mouthful, who dumped the lot in his dirty blanket. 
I had frequently told him that an Indian always under- 
stood that what you handed to him was his, but there the 
biscuit were. 

"Explain it to him," said Gibbs; "I can't speak his 
lingo, but we've got to have some bread for our dinner, 
and I don't really fancy getting it back after he has 
handled it and had it in that blanket." 

"Gibbs," I replied, "there is no need to explain it. 
You gave them to him; of course, you didn't intend to 
give him the whole output of the bakery, but you did. 
Now the only thing to do is to go and take what you 
want without any more ceremony; replevin them; use 
force if necessary, but get back our biscuit. We need 
not eat the outside of them; there's a lot of good bread 
inside which his dirty hands haven't touched." 



278 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

He looked at the bread and then said : "I don't Hke to 
be impolite to him. Why can't you tell him that it's all 
a mistake; what's the word for mistake in his patter?" 

"Oh, just say to him: 'Nidgee, pungee iskoodah 
wabo/ and it will be all right." This was an invitation 
to old Mouthful to have some whiskey, an article which 
we did not have, but this was my joke on Gibbs. 

The red man had not paid much attention to our talk, 
which he could not understand, but my last words must 
have had a familiar sound, for he turned his head and 
looked at me. 

Gibbs arose and repeated the words in his purest 
Chippewa. Old Mouthful also arose, as befitted such an 
important occasion, grunted, shook hands and replied in 
fairly good Ojibway that he "didn't care if he did." 

"What's that he says?" asked Gibbs. 

"He says that he begs your pardon, and hopes that he 
has not oflfended; and he begs that you will take the 
bread, and give him such a portion as will not rob your- 
self." The situation was growing interesting. As the 
interpreter I had the game in my hands. 

Gibbs struck an attitude and exclaimed: "Now, by my 
halidome! Our guest is a gentleman of right courtly 
manners. I tell you, Fred, you don't know these people 
if you have been around a few of them long enough to 
pick up some of their talk. I've read up on 'em, Scool- 
craft, Cooper and these authors; have studied 'em, and the 
noble red man has all the high-bred instincts of the most 
chivalrous knight, but these men who come among them 
to trade are not sufficiently educated to see and appre- 
ciate it." He then took up the bread, broke off a third 
of it and gave it to our guest. 

Old Mouthful looked surprised. Evidently he didn't 
mind the bread as long as there was whiskey in prospect. 



TAY-BUN-ANE-JE-GAY. 279 

After a pause he looked at Gibbs in a way that the Gov- 
ernor of North Carolina might have done at that historic 
meeting with the Governor of South Carolina, and mere- 
ly remarked: "Pungee 'scutah wabo?" 

"What's that he says?" asked Gibbs. 

He asked you for some whiskey, and he thinks you 
promised him some in exchange for the bread. I begin 
to think so myself, since I compare your pronunciation 
of Ojibway with his and mine. There are some very 
nice shades of inflection in Ojibway which make a word 
mean several things. You have told me how revengeful 
an Indian is, and you have mortally offended this man, 
and unless you give him what you have promised it may 
go hard with you — and, in fact, with all our party, for we 
are only six." 

"What will I do? I haven't any whiskey, and there's 
none in camp." 

"He won't believe that. He has seen a ten-gallon 
keg of molasses, but you don't suppose for a moment he 
believes it to be molasses? The kegs he has seen with 
white men have always contained whiskey. I don't 
know how you can square it with him. You've got 
yourself into this scrape, but I'll help you out if I can." 

I told our guest that Gibbs had not understood, "go- 
win kendun," but that instead of whiskey he meant to 
offer tobacco. That was satisfactory — it had to be — and 
Gibbs gave up a whole plug of Navy, and there was peace 
in the land. Gibbs felt that I had successfully arbitrated 
the case and averted a calamity. What our guest 
thought was impossible to tell, but Henry and I enjoyed 
the thing by ourselves, and afterward Henry guyed Gibbs 
about it at every chance. 

We had left civilization early in a Presidential cam- 
paign. The Democratic party had nominated James 



280 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

Buchanan, and the newly-formed Republican party had 
named John C. Fremont as its candidate. Our little 
party of six was divided in its choice, and in the evenings 
the argument waxed warm, but always in respectful 
shape. The date for the election had passed, but we 
knew nothing of the result. But what hundreds of 
bushels of oysters were bet! It would have required sev- 
eral smacks to have carried all these oysters if the stews, 
fries and raws had all been eaten. The fact is that no 
record of bets was kept, and each night the old score 
was forgotten and new bets were made. When we got 
back in the vicinity of Crow Wing — about December 
20 — we first heard the result, and the Buchanan men were 
jubilant. It served us well as a topic of interest, for it 
was not a jolly crowd, and what it would have done for 
amusement without the election is a question. 

Unless Henry or Gibbs was in camp I did not dare 
leave it. These Indians might be honest enough, but in 
our case it was well not to take any risks on our pro- 
visions. One day, while out with my rifle, I came to a 
lake of which I had a glimpse through the trees. Stand- 
ing awhile, there came a faint whining sound, which I at 
once diagnosed as the talk of a bear. Here was a chance 
to get a shot at bruin, and perhaps some fresh meat. 
Carefully looking at the cap on the rifle, I cautiously 
worked down into the marshy ground and underbrush in 
the direction of the sound. The marsh was frozen, or 
the passage would have been impossible. The sound 
came from one direction, but did not seem to increase as 
I advanced; but it was a bear, sure. Getting near the 
edge of the lake, as could be seen ofif to the right, the 
game must be close, and that creepy, trembling feeling 
came on. I halted and listened; it was but a few feet 
away. Through the brush a dark object could be seen 



TAY-BUN-ANE-JE-GAY. 281 

on a log, and the whining kept up. If it was a bear I 
wanted to see how it stood in order to plant the bullet 
right; but in stepping one sicie I made a slight noise, and 
an Indian boy about six years old turned around. He 
dropped, crawled behind the log, and then jumped into 
the brush and out of sight. Probably it was the first 
white man he had ever seen. Then I knew that what 
I mistook for the whining of a bear was the boy's low 
singing. The story he told his mother would be interest- 
ing, if we knew it. 

Getting back to the higher land again, I sat awhile on 
a log enjoying the clear, cold air and the glimpse of the 
frozen lake. After awhile there was another sound of 
life, and I saw a sight which I never have seen recorded 
by any writer of the woods. Below, in an open spot in 
the underbrush, perhaps of twenty feet diameter, and not 
over twenty feet away, came a troop of about thirty ruffed 
grouse or partridges of the Eastern States, and they were 
clucking and chattering at a great rate. The males were 
strutting with tails spread out like turkey cocks, or more 
like tame pigeons. I was in plain sight, and tried not to 
breathe for fear of disturbing them, for it was the treat 
of a lifetime. Among these birds was a male, I had no 
doubt the same species, which was black. Of course I 
can't at this late day, and in view of my very slight knowl- 
edge of such things at that time, be certain that this was a 
case of melanism in Bonasa, but I believe it. 

Later I saw several ptarmigan, which I then thought 
to be white ruffed grouse, but did not kill any. Some- 
thing alarmed the partridges, and they flew into the trees, 
and I picked off three. The shots brought an Indian, a 
stranger, who begged for a bird, and I gave him one. 
These men were persistent beggars; they thought every 
white man was wealthy. They seemed to roam the 



282 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

woods without either gun or bows, and I afterward 
learned that they lived mainly on fish, which they dried 
for winter. No doubt they knew how scarce game was, 
and that it was useless to hunt for it. I was greatly dis- 
appointed; I had left the East two years before because 
of the scarcity of game, and here I was in a primeval 
forest where there was no game, hardly a rabbit. Dis- 
appointed hardly expresses it. Why, we could go out 
from Albany in that day, in most any direction during 
the winter, and bag a few rufifed grouse, some rabbits 
and a squirrel or two; I began to think the far West a 
fraud; Minnesota was then "far West." The biggest lot 
of game I saw in northern Minnesota that winter was 
four young 'coons that Tom Davies killed with an axe 
as they huddled near a tree on an extra cold morning. I 
parboiled and baked them, and — oh, my! 

Our friend, who possibly might bite off more than he 
could chew, but never more than he could swallow, had 
ceased to be interesting. He found our camp at every 
move, and seemed to regard himself as part of it, or at 
least one of the volunteer staflf. Neaville and I paid lit- 
tle attention to him, but his eyes brightened when he 
found Gibbs in camp. Gibbs was curious about him, 
wanted to learn his language, and would touch objects 
and ask their names by looking up and saying, "Ojib- 
wa?" Then, of course, he could do no less than "divvy" 
on pork and tobacco — a very good arrangement for his 
friend. Speaking of tobacco, we once found old Mouth- 
ful with the native article, the "killi-ki-nic," or inner bark 
of the red willow. Henry and I tried once. It was most 
pungent, and I can only compare it to smoking rattan 
and elm root, which we schoolboys used before we as- 
pired to tobacco, and it almost burned our tongues off. 
I think some of the old boys, and perhaps some of the 



TAY-BUN-ANE-JE-GAY. 283 

younger ones, will recall their brave attempts to smoke 
things, no matter how pungent, which did not upset and 
invert their youthful stomachs. Fifty years ago most 
boys in America thought it smart to chew tobacco, and 
they acquired the disgusting habit; but the younger ones 
would get licorice ball, and spit in imitation of a tobacco 
chewer, and then some unbeliever would challenge him 
with, 'That ain't tobacco you're a-chewin' ; it's on'y lick- 
orish!" Yes, I was a boy once. 

These Northern Indians must smoke, but tobacco 
was an exotic which positively declined to grow so far 
North, and, like the boys, they found a substitute. After 
they found the Southern weed it was too costly to use 
alone, and they mixed it with killi-ki-nic merely for 
economy; but preferred pure tobacco when they could 
get it. 

"This reminds me." In my young days, when I was 
particularly fond of negro minstrelsy and burlesquing 
things, and shortly after the time of which I write, Long- 
fellow published "Hiawatha," a poem which I never tire 
of reading, but one whose meter urgently invites bur- 
lesque; and with hundreds of others I essayed it. Else- 
where I have said that some people seemed shocked at 
seeing a thing which they love burlesqued. That means 
that their sense of humor is only partially developed. 
Then and to-day I regard "Hiawatha" as the great Amer- 
ican epic, but I wrote: 

"Should you ask me whence I got them, 

Got these yarns of old James River; 

With their flavor of tobacco, 

Of the stinkweed, the mundungus, 

And the pipe of Old Virginny, 

And the twangle of the banjo; 

Of the banjo, the goatskinnit. 



284 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

And the fiddle, the catgutta, 
And the noisy marrow-bonum, 
I should answer, I should tell you: 
By one John-smith they were written. 
John-smith, soldier, sailor and explorer. 
Editor of his own adventures 
In the land of Po-ca-hon-tas, 
In the realm of Pow-ha-tan, 
Where old John-smith had a big time, 
Filled the red man full of whisky, 
Stole his daughter and sailed eastward 
To the far-off land of John-bull," etc. 

There were yards and yards of this stuff, but we will 
content ourselves with that. It's easy to write — any boy 
can do it — and the grandest of themes are the easiest to 
burlesque. That is a fact that human owls fail to under- 
stand. What is easier to travesty than "Chronicles?" 
And it is often done without intending irreverence; the 
humor of the thing is the only thought of the writer; but 
"a jest's prosperity/' etc. 

Here you see the evil effect of tobacco, how it will 
lead a man off the track to talk about Pocahontas and 
other irrelevant things. It's fortunate for some one that 
my pen did not go off after Sir Walter Raleigh and the 
story of his weighing the smoke which came from Queen 
Elizabeth's pipe, but every schoolboy knows all about 
that. 

We found another thing that the Indians used ; it was 
the "man-o-min," or wild rice. This is mighty good feed 
for wild ducks or Indians, but, as they ate it, there was a 
grit in it which detracted from its value to men who don't 
like to eat the hulls of grain. Hardly a night but half a 
dozen Indians slept by our fire and cooked their wild rice 
over it, but if they could get our Southern rice they were 
glad. It's many a day since I ate the man-o-min, but the 



TAY-BUN-ANE-JE-GAY. 285 

impression now is that if it had been properly hulled it 
would have been good. 

Along the streams we saw where the wild rice had 
been tied up in bunches to keep it from bending over and 
being eaten by wild ducks while it was in the milky state 
or after. Then, later in the year, the women paddled up 
the stream, bent the heads of rice over, and with a light 
stick threshed them into a canoe. 

Gibbs was always curious to taste their food; he had 
the true instincts of an investigator, and got more infor- 
mation in that line than we, who were more cautious of 
getting too intimate with the aborigines, for fear of our 
stock of provisions. 

We came out all right on the rations, and had all we 
wished to use; but the story of the winter is too long for 
one telling. 



WE-NEN-GWAY. 

A MUSKRAT FEAST — THE TRIP HOME ON THE ICE. 

AFTER a while we got into a swampy region which 
was frozen, or we couldn't have run lines 
through it. Lakes were frequent, and we saw 
many wigwams where there were high frames for drying 
fish. Crotches about ten feet high held poles, and across 
these were laid others, forming a rude platform, on which 
the fish were dried for winter use. As near as I can re- 
member the fish were whitefish, lake trout and either pike 
or mascalonge, for I then knew as little of the differences 
between the two latter species as an Adirondack guide 
or the average fish dealer does. Now I could trade 
bread, flour, pork or sugar for an occasional fish, but 
McBride always wanted to be assured that they had been 
thoroughly scrubbed, for he was a little shy of eating any- 
thing which an Indian had handled. 

Our old friend, whom we had named He-who-takes- 
so-much-at-a-mouthful, still followed us up, and I had 
become more than tired of him, and was wondering how 
' he could "be shook." Some little things had been 
missed, such as forks and spoons; there was no evidence 
that he had taken them, but when I once left a jackknife 
sticking in a log where I had been using it and it was 
gone an hour afterward, I suspected Mouthful, because 
he was the only man around camp beside myself. I said 
nothing about it, but resolved to keep an eye out for him. 
If, after feeding him for over a month, and sharing my 
tobacco with him, he would steal from me, I wanted to 
know it. I began to hate him, and he soon saw that he 
was not welcome; but he rejoiced when Gibbs was in 

286 



WE-NEN-GWAY. 287 

camp. One day when Gibbs stayed in I put a new 
handle in a little belt axe, and then began sandpapering 
a handle for the larger camp axe, for we had extra ones. 
The little axe lay by the fire and I was sitting in the door 
of the tent, when old Mouthful came up and grunted his 
salute, and sat down so that his blanket covered the axe. 
I noted the fact, and said to Gibbs: "Go talk to him; give 
him a pipeful of tobacco, anything to keep his mind off 
his appetite, and when I smooth up this axe helve I'll 
play you a game of euchre." 

While we were playing cards old Mouthful arose, 
wrapped his blanket about him, and walked off. The 
belt axe was gone. I called after him, "Nidgee!" several 
times, but he didn't look around, and I grabbed the axe 
helve and started after him. He was in a well-worn 
path, bordered with prickly ash, and when he found me 
close behind him he sprang into the bush, but not in time 
to escape a whack on the shoulders with the hickory 
helve, and he dropped the hatchet. When I returned to 
camp Gibbs was indignant. Said he: "If I was where I 
could get out of these woods I'd go. You are always 
knocking the Indians around, shoving them out of the 
way if they crowd around the fire, and now you've struck 
one of them, and we may all be murdered. These In- 
dians are revengeful, and that man will remember you if 
he meets you ten years from now." 

"You think he will remember me as long as that?" 

"Yes, he will; he'll treasure that up against you as 
long as he lives, for their memories are long, and they 
never forgive an injury." 

"Well, Gibbs," said I, "when I ask him to forgive me 
it will be time for him to do it. Just now I'm not asking 
any favors of him, and, as for his remembering me, that's 
all right. I hope he will, and I'll remember him, and if 



288 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

he ever comes to this camp or I meet him in the woods 
I'll lick him again. I'm just as mad as he is, and I've 
suspected him of stealing from us all winter, and now 
I've caught him in the act. I don't want to argue this 
case, but what I've told you is just what I'll do, and you 
can bet on it." 

"Suppose a dozen of his friends take this thing up, and 
come down on us in the night and kill us all. What can 
six men do in such a case?" 

"I tell you," said I, "the case is not a supposable one. 
You know that their head chief, Hole-in-the-day, lives 
near Crow Wing, and that he told McBride, through an 
interpreter, that if any of his men molested us in any 
way he would punish them, and every Indian from this 
place to Lake Superior has been notified of this. There 
is a whole mass of stufif in your head about Indians that 
I don't suppose you could get out with a fine-toothed 
comb; but you will never find that fellow around our 
camp again; he is a lazy, thieving beggar, who can't have 
any standing among his people." 

Just how far this satisfied Gibbs is a question. His 
mind was filled with romantic ideas of the red man which 
he had obtained from books, and he had no idea of the 
degraded ones who hang around a trading post, too lazy 
to hunt, trap or fish. I saw many Indians that winter 
who were too proud to beg, and this only proves that the 
red man is human and differs in mental make-up as other 
men diflfer. A very different man was We-nen-gway, 
whom I met on the border of one of those immense cran- 
berry marshes, which were common where we then were. 
Some of these marshes might have contained a thousand 
acres, and were red with frozen berries. As we had 
sugar in plenty, you may imagine what an agreeable 
sauce we had with our boiled pork, roast pork, baked 



WE-NEN-GWAY. 289 

beans, etc. His name meant Dirty-face, and he looked 
it. I wondered if he took pride in his name, and kept his 
face in that condition by some vow to abstain from wash- 
ing, but on closer acquaintance it was evident that the 
dark spots were birth marks, for which he was not re- 
sponsible. He watched me gather a quart of berries, 
and accepted a piece of tobacco in a dignified sort of way. 
He was evidently a superior man to Mouthful, and one 
not disposed to look too favorably on the invasion of his 
ancestral domain by the white man, but his tribe had sold 
this land to the Long Knives, and that settled it. I took a 
fancy to this man ; here was the ideal man that Gibbs had 
read of. 

Some days afterward he visited our camp, which was 
moved a few miles most every day to one of the cardinal 
points of the compass, and he brought me a fine lake 
trout. It was a fresh one, and I was interested at once. 
There was no game in the country, and my rifle was a 
useless burden in moving camp, but there must be fish 
near by. 

I asked Dirty-face to eat, and set out some cold boiled 
pork and beans, as well as hot coffee. This was a treat 
to him, but it was evident that he had eaten during the 
previous week, and was not filling up for the week to 
come. We naturally talked about the fish, and he told 
me that over by his wigwam was a lake with plenty of 
fish; and as our move next day would bring our camp 
near his, he would show me where and how to catch 
some o-gah. This was a new name, and after drawing 
pictures of fish as well as I could on a piece of birch bark 
I drew a pike or pickerel and said, "Ken-o-shah ;" he said 
it was the same. "O-gah" I never met before as a name 
for pike; but kenosha, kenoje or kenozha was the more 
common name for the fish. If those who wish to trace 



290 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

the derivation of the names of fish as used in popular 
nomenclature will take down their volumes of Forest and 
Stream, and look at the articles on the name of masca- 
longe, maskinonje, etc., they will find all that is known 
of the Indian name from which the various spellings are 
derived. See Vol. XXVI., page 149, March 18, 1886; 
and Vol. XXVI., page 268, October 28, 1886. 

From our new camp on the shore of a nameless lake 
I could see the wigwam of my new friend on the other 
side, about half a mile off, and after getting things in 
shape I went over to him. His wigwam was a typical 
Ojibway residence, made of skins laid over many poles, 
which came together at the top, where there was an open- 
ing for the smoke to go out. It was circular in form, 
much like the cumbrous Sibley tent which some of our 
troops used in 1862. On the outside there were records 
of hunts or fights in black and red pigments, which could 
be read by those versed in their pictorial histories, but 
which were a huckleberry beyond my persimmon. A 
skin flap kept out the cold; a small fire in the middle 
diffused all the heat it had to spare, and a goodly portion 
of it went out with the smoke. They made small fires 
of twigs and squatted over them, freezing one side while 
warming the other, and said that ours were so hot that a 
man could not get near them to warm himself; but I no- 
ticed that many nights our big fires were patronized by 
travelling Indians to sleep by, instead of making small 
ones for themselves. Did you ever notice that man is 
the only animal which lies with his feet to the fire? If 
you haven't observed this, just look at your dog bake his 
head under the stove. 

I was invited inside. Besides the flavor of smoke 
from burning wood there were several other perfumes 
which you never smelled in a barber's shop. Mentally 



WE-NEN-GWAY. 291 

I quote a couplet from Tennyson's "Maud" as I recall the 
combined odors: 

"The woodbine spices are wafted abroad 
And the musk of the roses blown." 

The family consisted of Mme. Dirty-face and two 
girls of sixteen and eighteen, and three young boys. By 
a most convenient arrangement the parlor, sitting-room, 
bedroom, dining-room and kitchen were all on one floor, 
with no partition nor stairs to climb when the head of 
the house came home with a load. I took this all in at 
a glance — the architectural beauties, I mean — the odors 
came in through a different sense. When I described it 
to Henry Neaville I could only compare it to a flavor 
met in boyhood days when I dug up a nest of young 
woodchucks. 

"Yes," said Henry, "I've been in a wigwam in winter, 
but the flavor, as I remember it, was more of an orni- 
thological character, and seemed to resemble that of a 
nest of young woodpeckers." 

Dirty-face took down a couple of spears and an axe, 
and we went up the lake to an open air-hole, where it was 
probable that a spring boiled up from the bottom and 
kept the ice from forming over its warmer waters. He 
advanced cautiously, and sounded the ice with the poll of 
his axe until it broke; he chipped off the edge which 
would not bear us, and we had firm footing at the margin 
of the water. His spears were not like the gig which 
Guyon and I used, but were made with a single point 
with two barbs, like an arrow-head; they appeared to be 
made from saw blades, and were fastened in clefts in the 
handles, which were of some heavy wood. Our ice cut-' 
ting had scared away any fish which might be near, so 
we waited and smoked. The snow on the ice prevented 



292 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

our seeing into the water except where it was open, and 
it also shielded us from being seen by the fish. Once I 
stamped a foot and my friend said "Kego," and, as the 
word means both "fish" and "don't," it was a caution 
either way. Soon we could see an occasional fish of 
good size in the clear water, but too deep to be reached 
with a spear. 

His patience exceeded mine, and it began to be 
monotonous to see the fish swimming below out of range 
in the clear water, and I said to him: "Kego-de-me," the 
fish are very deep. He grunted an assent, and pulled 
out a thin white stone not unlike a fish in general shape, 
and tied it to his spear with a few feet of string. This he 
moved gently about, and several fish gave it respectful 
attention without being impertinent, and then a large lake 
trout rose and I struck and missed it; its tail was toward 
me, and my spear went on one side. I knew that my 
friend must be more expert, and I took his spear and 
played the lure in the water, drawing it near the surface 
if a fish arose. Soon he plunged his spear into a fish 
which stood broadside and was about to seize the decoy. 
The cord ran out rapidly, but the flight was soon checked 
and a fine nay-may-goos lay upon the snow. I spell the 
name as I learned to speak it. Scientists call the lake 
trout Salvelinus namaycush, softening the original word. 
Dirty-face insisted that I should try it again, and I did, 
for I wanted to learn how to handle this new kind of 
spear. A large pike came up to the lure, and I sent the 
steel into it and secured it. We took three more fish, 
and then it was time for me to go to camp to get things 
in shape for the return of the linemen. I went back by 
way of the wigwam, and stopped awhile and gave Mrs. 
Dirty-face some tobacco, and she ordered the girls to 
clean the fish for me. I took two — enough for our sup- 



WE-NEN-GWAY. 293 

per, with the rice and beans — and would take no more. 
I have always been in doubt whether her action was 
genuinely generous or not, for the whole party visited 
me next day, and again when we moved to the upper end 
of the lake, and if a balance was struck between those 
two fish (which may have weighed twelve pounds) and 
an unknown quantity of bread, beans, rice, coffee and 
sugar — really, I don't know if there would be any bal- 
ance. 

I have remarked on the absence of game and other 
animal life. The snow which fell in September, and had 
lain without addition or melting, had become too hard 
to record the passing of small animals, such as mink, 
rabbits or even the heavier 'coons, but I saw a mink and 
a fox, and heard the great gray timber wolf several times. 
The Canada jay and the raven were the most common 
birds, and T saw the little chickadee and a bird which I 
did not know, but now think might have been the shrike, 
or butcher bird. I never ceased to be surprised at the 
absence of life in this wilderness. 

December came and the cold increased. One morn- 
ing the trees were bursting with a sound like rifles, and 
Gibbs thought we were attacked. He and Crosby 
jumped up out of bed before daylight, but soon returned 
when the rest of the party laughed at them, for we knew 
what the noise meant, having heard it before. After 
reaching Crow Wing we learned that the thermometer 
had been 40° below zero on several occasions. There 
was no wind in the heavy timber, and we were warmly 
clad and could hardly realize how cold it was. Coats 
were discarded, but no man knew how many flannel 
shirts he had on; and as long as the body part of a pair 
of trousers held together the legs of them were reinforced 
by cylinders made of bed ticking fastened at top and bot- 



294 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

torn; these were not removed when worn out, but other 
reinforcements were added outside them until a cross 
section of a leg might have shown half a dozen strata of 
bed tick above the original deposit of trousering. 

We had now reached the northern line of our survey 
at its eastern end, over by Mille-lacs, and were working 
the upper tier of townships toward the Mississippi. One 
day I was out with my rifle in the hope of finding game 
when I came across a wigwam by a small stream. I en- 
tered without ceremony, in accordance with Indian eti- 
quette, and found a party of perhaps a dozen bucks and 
squaws, seated on the ground around a small fire in the 
centre, over which a sheet iron camp kettle was boiling 
and sending forth a savory odor. I was hungry after the 
tramp, although I had bread, pork and beans in plenty, 
but had not eaten. After giving the mixed French and 
Indian salute which they commonly used, I invited my- 
self to sit down, and this was also correct O jib way form. 
There was an oppressive silence — oppressive to me, at 
least. 

"The silence of the place was like a sleep, 
So full of rest it seemed; each passing tread 

Was a reverberation from the deep 
Recesses of the ages that are dead." 

How different these people were from a party of white 
men waiting for a feast. There was no chat, jest, song 
or story. For idle men they take life seriously, and yet 
they are like children in many of their moods. I could 
never learn to live their way; that impassive, self-con- 
tained manner seems to be a continual sort of dress 
parade, so to speak, for they can be roused to enthusiasm 
by war or the hunt. I can't say that I like such people ; 
they are not cordial, and seem to be sitting in cold and 
unsympathetic judgment on not only you, but every 



WE-NEN-GWAY. 295 

other thing on earth. During the winter it had been 
evident that I was not a favorite with the native Ameri- 
can. He-who-takes-so-much-at-a-mouthful evidently 
preferred Gibbs to me, and some others whom I had 
bounced out of camp because of persistent begging had 
no great love for me, and so there was no amount of love 
lost between us. I stood, as the commissary of our 
party, the custodian of its supplies, which would have 
melted away in a week if all-comers had been regaled as 
our friend Gibbs would have entertained them. They 
would have stayed by him as long as the provisions 
lasted; they liked Gibbs. 

In this party in the wigwam I recognized Dirty-face 
and others who had been at our camp and had eaten of 
our pork, their great dainty, which they called koo- 
koosh; but there was no cordial handshake — only a nod 
and a grunt, which is their limit of welcome. A squaw 
arose, thrust a stick into the kettle and brought up meat; 
she was satisfied that it was sufficiently cooked, and took 
the kettle from the fire and went outside with it. I had 
curiosity enough to get up and follow. She put the ket- 
tle in the snow, and scraped up snow about it to cool it. 
I asked her what meat she was about to serve to her 
guests, at the same time giving her what pork I had. 
We were friends. Pork was good, and she had only 
muskrat to offer. Muskrat was not fat like pork and 
bear meat, but it was warm, and she hoped I would like it. 

Away back in the fourth article of this series I told of 
Bill Fairchild's experience with the muskrat as food, as 
he related it at a seance in Port Tyler's cabin, in Green- 
bush. If you remember. Bill could follow the French- 
man's advice — could "skin da mus'rat, bile him a leetle, 
den fry a-heem an' eat him, an' oh!" Right here I wish 
to record my first experience with the musquash as an 



296 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

epicurean dish. I ate it years afterward from choice 
while camping with Mort. Locke, John Fish and Wm. 
Downey on Cayuga Lake, N. Y., as the two last named, 
now living at Honeoye Falls, N. Y., will testify, if they 
have any regard for the truth; but that is another story, 
and there's no use telling how we played it on one of the 
party for something else in the way of game. 

When the contents of the camp kettle were cool the 
squaw brought it in, and a group formed around it on 
one side of the fire. I was not only hungry, but was 
curious to taste muskrat, which is a very clean feeder; 
but somehow the cook and the surroundings were not 
conducive to much appetite; but they asked me to join, 
and I joined. They dipped their hands in the kettle, and 
it is doubtful if they had been manicured recently. Dirty- 
face handed me a piece, and I wondered if any in the 
party might be named Dirty-hand. I wasn't hungry 
now, and said so, but felt a delicacy about refusing to eat 
with these friendly folk, and also felt a delicacy about 
eating food served in this manner. They omitted nap- 
kins and finger bowls, and somehow didn't seem to miss 
them. I ate a little, very little; said it was good, but I 
wasn't hungry just then, and went out. The air outside 
was excellent. 

I coitld have said with Petruchio : 

"Where is the rascal cook? 
How durst you, villains, bring it from the dresser, 
And serve it thus to me that love it not?" 

Gratiano, in "The Merchant of Venice," asks a ques- 
tion to which he evidently expects no answer: 

"Who riseth from a feast 
With that keen appetite that he sits down?" 



WE-NEN-GWAY. 297 

I pungled off, and ate my little cold luncheon beside 
a spring on the lake side. There were no napkins nor 
finger bowls there, but there was that satisfying knowl- 
edge that the hands which handled the food had been 
bathed since they skinned the last muskrat. On relating 
this to Henry Neaville he remarked: 

"I don't care what any of these writers on health say 
about too frequent bathing being injurious; I believe that 
a man ought to wash his hands once a month, whether 
they need it or not." 

Our surveys were nearly finished, and nothing was 
left to be done but to meander the river and figure the 
fractional sections which it cut, and to do a little work 
around Crow Wing. Henry Neaville and I were to 
pack up, and get back to the trading post and meet the 
party there. An Indian, a stranger, came to camp and 
begged for whiskey, I told him we had none, but he saw 
the molasses keg, and kept on begging until Henry said: 
"Give him some pepper sauce." I had put the liquor 
from several of the bottles into one and had thrown away 
the peppers, and taking up the bottle, Henry and I pre- 
tended to drink, and then he was wild for some. I 
showed him with my thumb on the bottle how much or 
how little he must drink, and he grunted assent, seized 
the bottle with both hands, and such swallows as he took 
before it burned him I never saw. If one swallow 
doesn't make a summer, those he took made it hot 
enough for him. He drew a long breath and snorted 
"woof," like a bear, and started for the river. Three 
times he stopped and snorted, and then ran out of sight. 
Henry roared, rolled over and roared. When he got his 
speech he said, between spasms: "Golly, but that Injun 
thinks there was more fire than water in that 'scutah- 
wawba; on, dear! he's gone for a doctor; he thinks you've 



9'98 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

poisoned him. Oh, if Gibbs was only here to tell you 
how Mr. Lo will remember that drink!" 

We stopped a couple of days at Crow Wing, and I 
became acquainted with the brothers who kept the trad- 
ing post. I think their name was McDonald, but am not 
sure, and Mr. Davies isn't. They told of an Indian who 
died there some winters before when the ground was 
frozen too hard to bury him, and how they stood him up 
all winter against the north side of the house and buried 
him in the spring, and some other cheerful stories of dead 
Indians. A Mr. Morrison lived there, one of the leading 
men of northern Minnesota, for whom the county below 
Crow Wing is named. He had married an Ojibway 
woman, and had two grown-up daughters, who had been 
educated in St. Louis, and they played the piano for us, 
and our visit was an event in Crow Wing life. Bishop 
McElvaney was there, and preached on the birth of 
Christ in Morrison's house, while Davies and others 
sang. I didn't sing; when I sing the police always pull 
the house, thinking there must be a dog fight in the back 
room. 

I went up to see Hole-in-the-day, and he showed me 
a Colt's rifle, made like a revolver, inlaid with gold, which 
was given him by President Franklin Pierce a year or 
two before. I understood that it was taken from the 
Patent Office by consent of Colonel Colt. He talked 
about trading it for my rifle, if I added enough dollars 
to suit him. He was poor, or pretended to be, and I 
wanted that rifle very much, but thought best to consult 
with the brothers at the post. One of them said: "It's 
against the law to trade with these people without a li- 
cense, and if you trade with him for the gun he can send 
a man after it, and you will lose both rifles and all you've 
paid, and then may have some trouble with the law." 



WE-NEN-GWAY. 299 

That settled the trading, but when I saw the old chief 
again he wanted to know, in confidence, if we had any 
whiskey left. I doubt if a single Indian believed that six 
white men, who had so many things they thought to be 
luxuries, spent half the winter in the woods without 
whiskey. To them it seemed an absurd proposition. 
The Indians who hung around trading posts were not 
of the best class, and had readily copied all the vices of 
the white man from a class whose virtues were not so 
apparent. They had not then adopted the white man's 
dress except the calico or the flannel shirt. They wore 
the breech-clout and leggings, a shirt and the invariable 
blanket. 

When we were up along the river we were near the 
great northern trail from the Red River of the North, and 
Henry said that the mail was due in a day or two, so he 
had heard from a half-breed. "This mail," said he, 
"comes down in a dog sledge, and if we can put out some 
pieces of pork in the snow you'll see some fun." 

That did seem the proper thing to do, and in fact it 
was the only way possible to extract any fun out of a dog 
train, and we planted pieces of pork at intervals of one 
hundred feet, more or less, and waited. It was next 
morning before we heard the driver calling to his dogs 
a long way off, for sound travels far in the cold and over 
snow. On he came, with five wolfish-looking dogs har- 
nessed tandem, with rawhides traces and soft collars, to 
a flat-bottomed sledge made of thin birch boards turned 
up in front, and lashed together with thongs and covered 
with a skin tied over all, and without runners. The 
driver ran beside the team, touching a dog here and there 
with a long lash fastened to a handle about one foot long. 
The leader struck a piece of pork, and in a moment four 
dogs were on him fighting for it, and the harness was all 



300 MEN 1 HAVE FISHED WITH. 

tied up. He plied the whip, and made appropriate re- 
marks while doing it. Some dog bolted the meat, and the 
fighting stopped, for there was no pork in sight. The 
half-breed muttered something, evidently not a prayer, 
while he put each dog in its place, and on he went in no 
pleasant mood, and the scene was soon repeated. He 
was near us this time, and we could see that the second 
dog won the prize, while the rest had to be contented 
with a bite of or from his neighbor. It was fun for the 
dogs and for us, but from what the half-breed said I doubt 
if he enjoyed it. If he had seen us he might have in- 
dulged in more oratory, but he had to waste his elo- 
quence on the dogs. It was fun to do this at that time, 
because we thought it fun. To-day we wouldn't do it, 
because there would be no fun in it. Thus we view 
things at different periods of life. The fire-crackers we 
shot off half a century ago don't sound as joyful as they 
did, and we go into the country to avoid them; so we go. 
McBride sold our provisions — I think there were two 
barrels of flour and one of pork left — and if memory 
serves he got about $20 per barrel for the flour, and twice 
that for the pork. Long prices; but transportation from 
St. Paul, over one hundred miles away, over a winter 
road, and no way of getting from St. Louis to St. Paul 
except by teams when the river was frozen, made things 
come high. The wagon was sold and a bob sleigh 
bought, the box filled with straw arid blankets, and on 
December 22 we started for home. Two days later we 
stopped just outside St. Paul. It did seem good to get 
in a bed again, but we couldn't stand a room with win- 
dows closed. We had slept in the pure, cold air too long 
for that. We left the river at Red Wing, and took the 
west side, avoiding the hotels in the large towns, stop- 
ping at country taverns, and we had what Henry called 



WE-NEN-GWAY. 301 

"dead loads of fun." At these rural hostelries we struck 
a dance nearly every night. At a small place not far 
from Rochester, Minn., the fiddler didn't show up, and 
some country roughs proposed to wreck the hotel, and 
the landlord appealed to us for protection. We were at 
a late supper, and Tom Davies finished first, and went 
out and talked with the turbulent spirits; but he was only 
one man, and he came back for reinforcements. We 
went out in a body at the landlord's suggestion, and after 
he had said a few words in a conciliatory way I winked to 
Henry and he came; we took the leader of the gang one 
side, and I said to him: 

"This party of ours has just come out of the woods, 
and they're peaceable enough if there isn't any fighting 
going on; but if there's any fighting you can't keep 'em 
out. We don't know any of the people here, but the 
landlord is a white man, and if a fight is started we're 
with him. Do you see that dark man over there? Well, 
he's a Welshman; look at the build of him; he can kill a 
steer with one blow of his fist," and I pointed to Tom 
Davies. 

"I've seen him do it three times down in Wisconsin," 
said Henry. 

"It's just here," said I. "There isn't going to be any 
fighting in this house to-night unless we all take a hand 
in it, and if we do I tell you as a friend to keep away 
from that Welshman." 

"Buried was the bloody hatchet; 
Buried was the fearful war club; 
Buried were all warlike weapons, 
And the war cry was forgotten; 
Then was peace among the nations." 

Just what delayed the fiddler is lost in memory's fog, 



302 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

but the lads and lassies were impatient; a thought struck 
my old bosom-block, Henry. Could the landlord get a 
fiddle? The landlord could, and did. Behold Henry 
seated on a chair on top of a table, tuning up! Such tun- 
ing and such playing! He was not Ole Bull, but he 
,came as near to him as he could. I can see him now, 
beating time with his boot — which had been cut open to 
allow his frozen toe to expand — and calling off: "First 
two forward!" etc. After a while the missing fiddler ar- 
rived, and relieved Henry without any perceptible im- 
provement in the music, but there was an era of good 
feeling, and it was 

"On with the dance! 

Let joy be unconfined! 

No sleep till morn, 

When Youth and Pleasure meet." 

We went through Pleasant " Grove, where me met 
Hiram Gilmore, of Potosi, who gave us late news of our 
families, and on the 28th we stopped at Decorah, la. ; we 
struck the Mississippi at Clayton City with sick horses; 
they would neither eat nor drink, and what the matter 
was I don't know, only that we were delayed. From 
there we took the ice to Cassville, Wis., where we stopped 
all night, and then struck out for home, which we reached 
just after sundown on the last day of the year, and, as the 
King says in "Hamlet:" 

"At night we'll feast together: 
Most welcome home." 



SERGEANT WILLIAM PATTERSON. 

A "bad man," a load of fish and a dead child, 

THERE is some reason for believing that his name 
was William, although I do not know it. The 
reason is entirely from analogy; he was always 
known as "Bill" Patterson, and I had known other men 
to be called "Bill" whose real name was William. Fur- 
ther than this I find upon the rolls of Company H, 
Twenty-fifth Wisconsin Infantry, the name of Sergeant 
William Patterson, of Potosi; and my old friend. Judge 
Seaton, who has kindly posted me on affairs in the village 
since I left it, says: "Bill Patterson went out with the 
Twenty-fifth Wisconsin Infantry." Therefore, as I have 
said, there is reason for believing his name to be William. 
If living, he is near Portland, Ore., but letters to him 
have been returned to me after being opened by another 
William Patterson. 

On that New Year Eve, when our surveying party re- 
turned to Potosi from northern Minnesota, there was 
quite a little visiting done by neighbors, who were anx- 
ious to learn of adventures among the Indians, and as I 
lived in the middle one of three cottages, all under one 
roof, owned by a Mr. Knight, who lived on one side, and 
Bill Patterson on the other, both neighbors called. Bill 
was then, I think, about thirty-three years old, I was 
twenty-three, and "Old Poppy Knight," the only name 
that memory recalls him by, was probably sixty; but lit- 
tle, weazened and dried up, and "meaner 'an pusley," as 



304: MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

farmers say. Bill was a strapping, broad-shouldered fel- 
low, who had been on the West Coast in that early day, 
perhaps with the "Argonauts" who went to the gold- 
fields of California in 1849; ^ rough, swaggering fellow, 
just the opposite of Old Poppy Knight, whom he seemed 
to dislike in a superlative degree. 

Mrs, Patterson and Miss Rowena Knight, daughter 
of O. P. K., were in the family circle. The conversation 
'had been general, and I had tried to reply to three or 
four questions at once, when Pop asked: "Are them In- 
jun girls good lookin'?" 

"See here. Pop," said Bill, who had been where the 
evening had been more bibulously observed, "what does 
an old duflfer like you want to talk about Injun girls for? 
I've been all through Sonora, New Mexico and the whole 
West Coast, and I never see a squaw that was worth a 
second look. I want to find out what them Injuns live 
on up in that cold country, where Fred says there's no 
game. I've ast that half a dozen times, and you don't 
give him a chance to answer. Now you let up for a little 
till we get at this problem of eating." Then to me: 
"What can they get to eat up there?" 

"Mainly fish," I answered; "they dry it for winter, 
and eat it without anything except salt, of which they are 
fond; but where they got salt before the white man came 
is a question. The Indians on the sea coast got it in 
their fish and oysters, and those about the interior salt 
springs had it to trade with other tribes; but when you 
look at it you will see that the dwellers in some parts 
must have eaten their meat without it." 

"Bill says he never saw a good-looking squaw," said 
Pop. "Now there's lots o' half-breeds up there, and are 
the half-breed girls better looking than the squaws?" 

"Pop," said Bill, "you had better go up there and see 



SERGEANT WILLIAM PATTERSON. 305 

for yourself; this thing of beauty is a personal matter. 
Some o' them squaws might take a fancy to you, for they 
ain't got the first bit of taste. I've seen men that has 
married squaws, but I don't think I ever saw an ugly old 
squaw that would marry you. I'll be obliged if you will 
shut up." 

Put yourself in my place! As the host, I did not 
fancy this sort of talk; but what could I do? Although 
Mr. Knight was Bill's landlord as well as mine, I knew 
that it would only need a word more for Bill — in viola- 
tion of all rules of hospitality, in which he was not well 
read — to take the old man by the collar and trousers, and 
set him outside. I turned the tide by telling of Henry 
Neaville's frozen feet, and we got along harmoniously 
until the clock said it was time for congratulations on 
the new year. As the good-nights were said Bill 
whispered that we should have a deer hunt on the first 
day of the new year, and after the rest were gone we 
sat down over our pipes and arranged for it. 

A couple of inches of snow fell early in the night on 
top of the old snow, which was about the same depth, but 
not hard. The new year of 1857 opened still and mild, 
without being bright; as perfect a day for a hunt as it 
was possible to have. Every rabbit that had ventured 
out since midnight left evidence of its wanderings, and 
we saw where the quail had huddled on the ground and 
had risen in the morning. The partridge left a broad 
trail until it tired of wading and took to a tree. All 
these things were noted as we went off to the northwest 
to strike the Grant River. Bill wanted to talk about 
"Old Poppy Knight," and I tried to keep him still. Two 
winters in the woods had the usual effect of making a 
fellow think more than he talks. We were on a ridge 
and were about one hundred feet apart. 



306 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

Bill said: "Old Pop made me mad last night, bustin' 
in the talk to know if squaws was good-lookin'. What 
'n thunder is that to him?" and then he launched out in 
his rough way and "swore like our army in Flanders." 
There was a crackling of brush, followed by several 
thuds, and Bill's rifle spoke. I saw nothing; the deer 
had been lying down on Bill's side of the ridge listening 
to what Bill thought of the propriety of O. P. Knight's 
inquiry into the physical attractions of the Ojibway 
maidens, and no doubt feared that Bill's indignation 
might take a wrong direction, and so considered it best 
to leave him to settle it with Mr. Knight without being a 
party to the row. We went to the place where the deer 
jumped, but found no blood. Going back to the ridge, 
about fifty yards, I looked the range over, and then found 
where the bullet had cut a twig and then raked up the 
snow half way to the spot where the deer jumped, no 
doubt when it was several rods on its journey. 

"Who'd think there was a deer lyin' down in that 
thicket?" asked Bill. "Why, I s'posed we'd have to 
track 'em after we found where they'd been?" 

"If they're not afoot you never know when you may 
jump one along a ridge," said I, "for they seldom lie in 
the hollows, and you can look for 'em on the sheltered 
side of a ridge 'most anywhere. Now let Old Poppy 
Knight rest, and keep still for a while. Your shot has 
been heard by every deer within three miles, and it may 
have put some of them afoot, but you will have to tramp 
before you see one. We're nearing the river now; the 
ridge forks here; you take the left hand one, and we'll 
come together at the river." 

After going about half a mile and seeing no track I 
heard Bill's shot from the western ridge, stopped and 
cocked my rifle. A buck came dashing down the hill 



SERGEANT WILLIAM PATTERSON. 307 

and I slipped behind a tree. Great bounds he took, and 
up the hill on my side he came, panting with the effort. 
Gaining the ridge, he stopped, turned to look back, and 
presented a full broadside view to me at not over one 
hundred feet. As I fired he leaped into the brush, but 
the great spurt of blood on the snow told the tale. I 
gave a whoop, and got an answer, then called, "Come 
over here!" and sat down on a log. It seemed hours 
before Bill made the journey across the valley that the 
buck had made in a very few minutes, if he really con- 
sumed any time at all. We took the track, and down 
by the river we found the deer, dead. Bill's bullet, shot 
on the jump, had grazed the breast just back of the shoul- 
der, cutting the hair and marking the skin — an excellent 
shot at a jumping deer, for no doubt it jumped before Bill 
saw it. 

The buck was a fair-sized four-pronged one. We 
dressed it, and then went to a spring, washed, and ate 
our luncheon, for it was far past the noon hour. As we 
lighted our pipes Bill remarked: "We'll divide that deer 
when we get up, and it's about all we will want to carry 
home. Under the rule that the first bullet hole takes the 
hide it's mine, but you can have the head if you want 
it." 

"All right. Bill; show up the hole and take the hide; 
that's the rule." 

"Didn't I make a hole in his belly just behind the 
shoulder? Do you mean to say I didn't hit him?" 

"There's a scratch there that a jury might decide was 
made by your bullet, or might have been made by a pine 
knot when the deer stepped over a log. I don't want the 
hide; Charley Mallett wouldn't give over $i for it, any- 
way. I am sure your bullet made the mark, for there 
was fresh blood there, and the cut was across the breast. 



308 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

not lengthwise, as it would have been done when the deer 
was on the run. Take it; I only spoke in that way be- 
cause of your claiming the hide so promptly." 

"Now, see here," said Bill, "I don't want that hide. 
I ain't no hog! All I thought of was that I didn't miss 
that deer slick and clean as I did the other one, and I 
wanted you to know it. I'll tell you what we'll do; let's 
give a quarter of the deer and the hide to old John Jami- 
son, who has been sick all winter an' hasn't earned a dol- 
lar; send a quarter to that widow up there on the British 
Hollow road; I forget her name, but her husband died 
before you got back from the North. Then we'll keep 
the rest, and if Old Poppy Knight would like a steak — 
no, I'll feed it to Charley Guyon's 'coon dog first. Say, 
I wouldn't let that old pelican have a smell of it. No, 
sir, not by a mill privilege." 

His charitable proposition was carried out; we had 
our hunt and all the meat we needed. It's not hard to 
give away what you don't need; the difficulty often oc- 
curs in deciding what it is that you don't need when your 
neighbor is destitute, and is in desperate need of things 
which you don't — here I get off the track, and go to 
moralizing over what struck me as a good streak in the 
nature of Bill Patterson, who took good care that no one 
should discover that he had what he would have con- 
sidered a weak spot. He would have fought me for that 
deer skin, but you see how it went. 

February had come, and Henry Neaville's feet had 
got over their October freeze. He drifted into my house 
one day on a south wind when Bill was profanely reciting 
his adventures in Sonora and New Mexico, and said: 
"There's a lot of fish in a pond hole down by the river, 
and they're all a-crowding up to a little spring that keeps 
an open place and gives 'em air. There's a lot o' bass, 



SERGEANT WILLIAM PATTERSON. 309 

pike, dogfish and all the other kinds, an' you can just dip 
'em up by the scoopful; what do you say about going 
down and getting some?" 

"All right," said Bill; "we'll go in the morning. I've 
got a dip net that only wants a handle, and I'll put one 
on in the morning. Come down after breakfast and 
we'll go. I haven't had a fresh fish this winter, and have 
forgotten just how they taste." 

Our outfit consisted of a dip net, or a landing net of 
coarse mesh strung on a fourteen-inch ring, with a rake 
handle attached; an axe, a spear, or "gig," and some mos- 
quito netting, which Henry brought. What the latter 
was for I had no idea, but then I had not seen the place. 
It was snowing a little, with hardly any wind. The pool, 
or pond hole, as Henry called it, might have covered two 
acres, and had been washed out of the soft soil by the 
great river some time when it overflowed its banks, and 
in summer it was dry. A spring came in its eastern edge 
and kept the ice from making up to the shore. Thou- 
sands of large fish crowded to this opening for air, and I 
never saw such a sight before nor since. There must 
have been many thousands of the different fishes which 
inhabit the Mississippi River crowded into a small space, 
those in the rear pushing up to the open place and forcing 
the others to the shore and around to the rear, as if they 
said: "You have had your chance to breathe, now make 
way for us." 

I stood in amazement at the scene. Bill took the axe, 
and cut the opening larger until the thin ice at the mar- 
gin was gone and we could stand at the edge. I took 
the net and dipped up a few fish, trying to select my fa- 
vorite crappies and small catfish. 

"Let me take that net," said Bill, and he proceeded to 
lift the fish by the netful. The spear was of no use; it 



310 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

would only mar the fish, and we could take all we wanted 
with the net. 

After a while, when there was about one hundred 
pounds of fish on the ice, I thought it time to quit, and 
mentioned the fact that we had all we could carry and 
enough for ourselves and friends. There seemed no use 
to kill more. 

"I don't intend to stop short of a ton," said Bill. 
"Henry, you go back to the village, and get a team from 
Jo Hall and a bob-sled, and we'll take a load of the best 
of these to Dubuque, and if they take well we'll give 'em 
another load this week. Keep it still, or there'll be a big 
gang down here to take a share in the fish." 

This was taking a commercial view of the fishing, and 
I said to Bill, after Henry had gone: "I never liked to 
see men rob the woods of game and the waters of fish to 
send to market, and I only thought to come down and 
get a few for our own use. It's this wholesale slaughter 
for market that has made the East barren of fish and 
game, and I've talked against it there and I don't want 
to engage in it here. Fur is a different thing from 
game, and I could trap for a living easy enough, but 
somehow it doesn't seem right to take advantage of those 
fish and market them, when if we take what we want and 
leave the rest to breed, there will always be plenty for us." 

Bill's remarks, carefully expurgated, were something 
like this, but contained more adjectives, for in his ordi- 
nary conversation he "swore like our army in Flanders :" 
"Look a-here! What are you chinnin' about, anyhow? 
I've been all over Sonora, New Mexico and Californy, 
and fished in more rivers than you ever see, but these 
Mississippi bottoms are different. It's this way: In the 
spring and fall there's a heap o' water comes down this 
valley, an' it overflows all these bottom lands, and the fish 



SERGEANT WILLIAM PATTERSON. 311 

come up close to the bluffs to keep from being swept 
down in the current. When the water falls they get 
trapped in these holes, and thereithey are." 

"Yes; but when the spring freshet comes don't they 
swim out and go to their breeding grounds, and so keep 
the river stocked?" 

"Not by," and he referred to a spot where a mill 
might be placed. "These ponds freeze over tight and 
the fish die. They die in thousands of just such holes all 
along the river, and they have died in this hole year after 
year. This spring water coming in here is a new thing; 
it wasn't here last winter, and it may stop or cold weather 
may close it; I don't care whether it does or not, there's 
a chance to send a sleigh load of fish to Dubuque, and 
that's all there is of it." 

I saw it was as he said. I cut into some of these pond 
holes later in the winter, and found a stench of decaying 
fish. Within the past few years the United States Fish 
Commission, through the urgent requests of Colonel S. 
P. Bartlett, of the Illinois Commission, has sent a car up 
the river, and seined the imprisoned fish from these holes 
and returned them to the river— as good a work as hatch- 
ing millions of fish eggs; perhaps better, for it saves the 
parents, and allows them to breed next spring. 

Henry came with the team, and found us on the shore 
cooking fish and frying sausages for dinner. Bill thought 
he was as good a camp cook as I, but we differed on that 
point. Without discussing the question, I feel impelled 
to go off the track to say: Our open-air appetites, whether 
in the woods or on the waters, make camp cooking seem 
superlative. Benedick says in "Much Ado About Noth- 
ing:" "But doth not the appetite alter? A man loves the 
meat in his youth that he cannot endure in his age." 

This leads me to say that after many years' experience 



312 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

in all kinds of dining — strike me if you will — it is now 
my mature judgment that taking a dinner in the abstract, 
without any of the poetical surroundings of the chase, 
and the sentiment which hovers about game killed and 
cooked by yourself, a grand dinner served by a com- 
petent chef to gentlemen in evening dress has a charm 
for me that increases with age. Not that I have lost all 
taste for an al fresco feast in camp style; but there are 
pleasures of many kinds, and they are not always com- 
parable. I only draw the line at those messes called 
clam chowders, fish chowders and the nightmare provok- 
ing clambake. These may be classed as coarse feed- 
ing, but I have had as delicious trout, venison and other 
game served in camp as ever tickled a tongue. Yet a 
service in courses, the varied products of the vineyards, 
the fruits and desserts — I like all good things, but the 
best of all is good company, whether in evening dress or 
flannel shirt; yet I can't admit that camp cookery excels 
the best hotel cookery, taking each on its merits outside 
of sentiment. We deceive ourselves in this; we come 
in hungry enough to eat a bear before his skin is off, and 
"hunger is the best of sauce." 

You have often come into camp with a string of trout 
and had to clean and cook them before you could eat 
supper. You stuck a stick in the gills with a bit of pork 
in the mouth, and stood them up before the fire and 
turned them when necessary. When you thought they 
were done you sat down, and ate them half raw and half 
burned, and your hunger prompted you to say that you 
never ate such trout before in your life. If trout cooked 
in that same way were set before you in a restaurant you 
would reject them as unfit to eat. But the memory of a 
camp dinner with an appetite only six hours old, but very 
large for its age, has a halo around it that should properly 



SERGEANT WILLIAM PATTERSON. 313 

encircle the appetite. Though not a taxidermist, I have 
stuffed several thousand first-class appetites, but never 
could preserve one. 

Henry sat down and helped us out on the dinner, and 
told how he had thrown the villagers off the track by- 
saying that we had killed two deer and a bear, and needed 
a sleigh to bring them in. A mink trotted down along 
the shore to the hole where he usually fished, stopped 
short of it, looked over at us and took the back track. 
Henry said: "That mink made a mistake, and thought it 
was Friday, When he saw us eating sausage the fact 
that it was Thursday dawned on him, and he left for the 
landing and Chapman's chicken house." 

We sorted the fish, throwing all gars, dogfish, red- 
horse and other poor kinds aside, and loaded the sleigh- 
box with bass, pike and crappie, and my two companions 
started down the river on the ice for Dubuque, la., some 
dozen miles below, and after waiting a while I got a team 
which had brought pig lead to the landing to take up a 
good lot of fish and our traps to the village. Besides 
these things there was a bag with about a bushel of young 
fish of many kinds, which had been seined out of the 
spring by the mosquito netting which Henry had 
brought. None of these were over two inches long, and 
I was in doubt what they were intended for until Bill 
said: "You spread these little fish out so that they don't 
heat nor freeze, and when we get back I'll have 'em 
cooked as the Mexicans used to cook 'em down in So- 
nora. I've seen lots of things out there that you fellows 
never dreamed of, and here I am wasting my time in 
these old lead mines. What's lead worth? Thirty dol- 
lars a thousand! I mined for gold worth $20 an ounce. 
Say, when you get them fish to Potosi and go to dividin' 
'em, just lay out some o' the best for old John Jamison 



314 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

and the widow on the British Hollow road. We'll be 
back to-night or to-morrow, and if this trip pays we'll 
do her again. Goodby." 

The team I found at the landing was from British 
Hollow, and the driver gladly went over to the fishing 
place. I told him to pick out all the fish he wanted, and 
put them in front so that they couldn't be given away. 
I had the fish assorted for the different people, and deliv- 
ered all but the last two lots. We stopped at Jamison's, 
and at my call a man came out to know what I wanted. 

"I've a lot of fish for John that Bill Patterson has sent 
up to him; Bill knows John well, and here they are; I 
s'pose you're John, and you will remember that we sent 
you up some venison about the New Year." 

The man took the fish and said: "John died early this 
morning, but his children may use them, and no doubt 
will be glad of them, for John left nothing; he's been an 
invalid so long. As a friend of the family, I thank Mr. 

Patterson and you " but I had started the horses on, 

saying to the driver: "Get out of this quick! We can't 
do any good and — let the horses go." 

A few rods brought us to the cabin of the widow. 
She came to the door in response to a knock, and I 
stepped in and explained my errand. Something in her 
manner made me lower my voice, and she began to cry. 
By the light of a tallow candle I saw that she was a poor, 
thin, careworn woman, and I fumbled the cap in my 
hands awkwardly, hardly knowing how to get out of the 
house without indecent haste. She was prematurely old, 
and it was doubtful if she had ever been even passably 
good-looking. Poverty and care were stamped in every 
line of her face. She might have been thirty, but looked 
to be twice as old. Her little girl, an only child, was very 
ill. Would I look at it? 



SERGEANT WILLIAM PATTERSON. 315 

I followed her to a back room, and found a child of 
about six years lying on a bed and apparently asleep, 
but twitching violently. Then came a muscular spasm 
which doubled the little sufferer up, and I was alarmed. 

"Has a doctor seen the child?" 

"No; I thought she'd get over it without the expense 
of a doctor, for I am very poor. My husband was hurt 
a year ago by a fall down a shaft, and died last October. 
I've worked when I could get work, but have not been 
strong enough to do much. It's a hard world for the 
poor and weak, and if my little girl goes from me I want 
to go, too." 

I don't know that it did any good, but I took the girl 
in my arms, and walked the floor with her, trying to help 
her unconscious struggles. When the spasm passed I 
laid her on the bed, and went out to find some one to go 
for a doctor. I found a man going to Potosi on foot, 
and told him to send Dr. Gibson out at the earliest mo- 
ment, and returned to the house. If the doctor would 
only come, and let me get out! The time passed so 
slowly. I was not fitted by nature to be either a doctor 
or an undertaker, and suffering which I could not relieve 
was a thing to be left to itself; but I could not leave it. 
The child had several spasms, and the night passed over 
a little cabin with sorrowing mother and a dying child 
in the arms of a rough, untrained fellow, who would help 
both if he only knew how to do it, but who wished him- 
self a thousand miles away. 

It had never occurred to me that I would be missed, 
so busy was my mind with the misery in the cabin, and 
when a jangle of sleigh bells stopped in front of the cabin 
long after midnight I mentally said: "There comes the 
doctor." 

I was walking the floor with the child in my arms. 



316 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

when the door opened and the doctor came in, followed 
by Bill Patterson, Henry Neaville, Mrs. Patterson and a 
dozen other men and women. 

"What had kept me so long?" "Why didn't you come 
home?" Bill said: "When we sold them fish in Dubuque 
for less than we've got to pay Jo Hall for the team, I 
said: 'I'll be blessed if I ever take another load of fish to 
Dubuque.' If you've got them little fish all in good 
order we'll have 'em fried at Johnny Nicholas' restaurant 
to-morrow night, and I tell you they'll be fine. Hello! 
What's the matter?" 

While he was talking to me the mother of the child 
dropped fainting to the floor, for she had seen the women 
take the child from my arms— dead! 



WILLIAM WARREN. 

SHOOTING FISH IN KANSAS — BACHELOR'S HALL — THE 
BORDER WAR. 

IT is a blessed privilege to be past the meridian of life 
to-day. What a store we white-headed fellows 
have of things which a younger generation of men 
can never attain! In the charmed recesses of remem- 
brance lie the vast flocks of wild pigeons, and of game to 
be had in an hour's walk, where now there is naught of 
life save the abominable imported sparrow. And then 
there was the grand and glorious Civil War — but I must 
not write of that further than to say to the young men 
who were born too late to take part in it that I am sorry 
for them. Still they have the compensations of youth, 
and if they are fortunate enough to live where there is 
still some game left, or if they have the means to travel 
to the far-off places, they will, after they get past the 
noon of life, have the same feeling of commiseration for 
the boys who are forty years in the rear of them which 
I have expressed. 

There are two reasons for writing the above para- 
graph; one was because I accompanied Warren on my 
first and only buffalo hunt, and the other was because 
while taking "a cold bottle and a hot bird" with my old 
army companion. Baron Berthold Fernow, once of Po- 
land, but later Major of United States Volunteers and of 
the Topographical Corps of Sherman's army, last winter, 
the Major, in response to a question if he was still living 
in Albany, said: "No, I am now living at 151 West Sixty- 
first street, in this city, a place where I used to shoot rab- 

317 



318 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

bits when I first came to America, and where I once got 
lost in the underbrush and strayed away off to the north- 
east, where the Astoria ferry now is." Think of it! The 
street is near the lower end of Central Park, and right in 
the middle of the city. The late ex-President Chester 
A. Arthur told me that he had shot woodcock where the 
Fifth Avenue Hotel now stands, and that is only at 
Twenty-third street. All this has nothing whatever to 
do with my fishing with William Warren further than to 
show what changes take place in our rapidly growing 
country. As a historian, in a feeble way I record it. As 
an American and a naturalist, I regret it. Emigration 
has been encouraged to build great cities where the buf- 
falo should still range over territories which ought to 
have been left for Americans who will be born a century 
hence. These sentiments prove to you that I am an 
"old fogy," but one who believes that we should not give 
away our great farm when we have children growing; 
but that is "politics," and so we will go on to tell about 
this man with whom I fished in Kansas in the year 1857. 

I was boarding with a man named Serrine, on the 
Cottonwood, while looking up a suitable place to claim 
a quarter-section, and Warren came there often. He 
was from Chicago, and had a claim over on the Neosho. 

He was a big, strong fellow, about twenty-five years 
old, with a dark, pleasant face and a habit of clipping his 
words. A favorite way to begin a sentence was with 
the word "Betcher," which stood in his vocabulary for 
"I'll bet you." So one day in the spring he said to me: 

"Betcher da'sent take a day off o' land-lookin' an' go 
shootin' buffler fish; they're just comin' up on the riffles 
now and a-wallerin'. They're thicker 'n hair on a dog; 
'f you never shot 'em you'll like it. What yer say?" 

My rifle had been packed in a chest and sent by 



WILLIAM WARREN. 319 

freight from Potosi, Wis., and the chest had been stolen 
somewhere on the rivers or at St. Louis, and I had only 
a Colt's navy revolver to shoot with. From what I had 
seen of these big, unwieldy buffalo fish on the riffles it 
was certain that the revolver was good enough for such 
work. The fish were very plenty, and were mating and 
spawning on every riffle, but at the least alarm would 
dodge down into the pools below. The Cottonwood was 
a series of deep pools and gravelly rififles, over which the 
water flowed swiftly, and sometimes these were so shal- 
low as to leave the hump-backed buffalo partly out of 
water. The river may have averaged sixty feet across, 
and it cut through a deep alluvial soil, forming high 
banks in most places, except at the inside of curves, 
where the current had made a gentle slope to the water. 
The rififles were at these points, and we could get near 
them by approaching the fish from the low side. It was 
not a particle of sport, but Warren thought it fun, and 
wanted to go on killing after we had more than we could 
carry; but I said no, and we strung our fish and went 
home. 

"Betcher I c'ld kill a thousand bufifler in half a day an' 
not go over two mile on the river. What's the reason 
you wouldn't kill any more? Don't yer like the fun?" 

"No; there's no fun in killing things that you don't 
want to use, unless they're rats or other vermin which 
annoy you. My idea of sport is to hunt something 
which is hard to find, and is some use after you have 
found it. Shooting these fish is good enough when you 
want a change of diet from ham and salt pork, but they're 
too easy for sport. As you say, you could probably kill 
a thousand in half a day, but shooting at a mark is just 
as much fun; in fact, it would be more fun for me than 
to kill things for the mere sake of killing." 



320 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

This buffalo fish is a coarse thing, a relative of the 
sucker tribe, with a similar mouth ; perhaps it is as good 
as the carp, but then we had not the carp, and the taste 
of the buffalo has faded too much in forty years for com- 
parison. My present notion is that both are worthless 
as food, but a residence by salt water may have spoiled 
me for enjoying most fresh-water fish, especially carp 
and suckers. 

Warren sold his claim and took another while I was 
still undecided, and we put up a little cabin on the bank 
of the river and "batched" together. Within a few miles 
several town sites were laid out with pegs, each with 
grand parks, court house squares and grand avenues — on 
paper. 

"Behind the squaw's light bircK canoe 

The steamer rocks and raves, 
And city lots are staked for sale 
Above old Indian graves." — Whittier. 

The genius of speculation was abroad, and within a 
radius of five miles there were at least a dozen "future 
railroad centres" laid out. I only remember "Columbia" 
on the Cottonwood, where there was a grocery and gin- 
mill combined, kept by a man named Jeff Thompson. 
He had maps, and sold lots in the Eastern cities and took 
in what he could gather. He offered me ten lots in the 
heart of his "city" for my revolver, but somehow I 
thought I needed the pistol more than I did town lots. 
Then there was "Chicago," on top of a bluff, where I shot 
sandhill cranes later on, which never got beyond the peg 
and map stage. Warren had a big interest in this, and 
traded some lots for a yoke of cattle and a wagon. I 
doubt if there is even a farm house there to-day. Em- 
poria was laid out high on the open prairie, between the 
Cottonwood and Neosho, with no water in sight. It was 



WILLIAM WARREN. 321 

not a promising place for a town, but when my father 
offered to send me his double fowling-piece I traded the 
revolver for a block of lots in Emporia. 

Warren said: "Betcher your revolver is gone, lost, 
vanished, an' vamoosed. Why, that place will never 
amount to a hill o' beans, but if you'd invested in Chi- 
cago you'd have been O. K. They've dug over one hun- 
dred feet for water there in Emporia, and didn't get it. 
Whatter they goin' to do without water? Just dry up, 
that's all. Betcher'U wish that revolver back 'fore long, 
for that was worth something." 

There was a big push behind Emporia. A lot of 
Eastern capitalists spent money to find water, and they 
found it. As soon as it was struck I was offered $150 for 
my lots, and I shook the money under my friend's nose. 
That find of water after nearly a year's digging made a 
great railroad centre, and the neighboring "peg" towns 
were heard of no more. 

Meanwhile I had located a claim, and filed it at the 
land office. This gave me the privilege, as an actual 
settler, of pre-empting or buying the quarter-section of 
160 acres at the Government price of $1.25 per acre be- 
fore the tract in which it was situated was offered at pub- 
lic sale. That spring there had been discoveries of great 
deposits of lead in the Ozark Mountains, and among the 
miners of Potosi, Wis., there was much excitement and 
considerable emigration. I had written father that I 
would go to the mines in Missouri. That shirt of Nessus 
which causes the restlessness of border life impelled me to 
go somewhere. I had tired of life as it was lived in 
the mines and woods of Wisconsin and Minnesota, and 
a new field of adventure was opened. With the average 
miner, who is a born gambler, there was the prospect of 
gain. I was not an average miner, nor a born gambler. 



322 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

and only wanted change and adventure. I had read all 
about Daniel Boone, Davy Crockett, Kit Carson and 
Cooper's men of fiction, and dollars cut no figure in my 
calculations. I was young; old age and its needs seemed 
to be centuries away, if indeed it was ever thought of. I 
revelled in my youth and strength, and thought they 
would last forever. The quarter of a century that I had 
lived seemed to comprise the whole existence of the 
world, and all that had gone before my recollection was 
merely a fairy tale. 

When I left Albany, in 1854, my father had exacted 
a promise that I would not join an expedition against the 
Indians. He knew that I loved a fight of most any kind, 
and when he learned that I proposed to go to the Ozarks 
he wrote me that he wanted me to go to Kansas and 
select a farm on which he could pass his declining years. 
This was not funny then, but it is to-day. My father was 
reared on a farm, but left it when eighteen years old, and 
always looked to getting back on one. Now, when I am 
six years older than he was then, I know that his nervous 
organization, after years of absence from farm life, was 
no more fitted to it than my very different temperament 
was. But he wrote me that he had a land warrant from 
the War of 181 2 (not his own by right of service, for he 
was born in 1800), and that he wanted me to select the 
place in Kansas. 

The newspapers had been filled with accounts of 
"bleeding Kansas," and the troubles were not entirely 
over when our surveying party came out of the Minne- 
sota woods in the last month of 1856. There was a fight 
there over the slavery question — a matter that I had paid 
no attention to, but there was a fight. I looked around 
and got letters of introduction to General Jim Lane, the 
'Tree State" leader, and went to Kansas; we spelled it 



WILLIAM WARREN. 323 

Kanzas in those days, and my tongue has never been 
able to accommodate itself to the modern soft way of 
speaking the name. 

I put up a log cabin on a good quarter-section which 
had a stream running through it, and also had several 
acres of timber — two valuable things in that prairie coun- 
try. Warren helped me in this, and also in splitting 
enough black walnut and mulberry rails to fence in ten 
acres. The land cost $1.25 per acre, but it cost $3 per 
acre to break the heavy prairie sod. I was playing 
farmer! 

"One man in his time plays many parts, 
His acts being seven ages. * ♦ * " 

Warren and I kept bachelor's hall until past mid- 
summer, when my house was in order for business, and 
my little family came on from Wisconsin. Our work 
was at a distance, and we took turns at cooking, and on 
Sundays we cleaned up and washed the dishes. A very 
good housekeeper to whom I told this asked in undis- 
guised astonishment: "Didn't you wash your dishes every 
day? Why, how did you get along?" 

"My dear madam," I replied, "you are a most excel- 
lent housekeeper here in the effete East, but know little 
how to manage a bachelor establishment in Kansas in 
that early day. If we had washed our tin plates after 
every meal, as is the custom in some places, the microbes 
set free from the newly-turned sod would have attached 
themselves to the tin, and our lives would have been in 
danger from tintinambiilacra. No, my dear madam, we 
did not dare risk it; so we turned our plates over after 
each meal to protect them, and only dared to wash them 
•once a week. This was a fearful risk, but we did it; I 
now think it would be safer not to have exposed the plates 



324 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

to the influence of hot water and soap at all, but for- 
tunately we escaped all harm — perhaps because we had 
youth on our side." 

She paused a moment, drew a long breath and said: 

"You don't tell me . Oh, men are horrid, anyway! 

I don't believe a word of it!" 

Warren said : "When you take the ox team up to Em- 
poria after the mail and provisions, see if you can't get 
some vegetables. The cows got into my garden, and 
cleaned up what the 'coons, bugs and other things left, 
and we want some green stuflf; see if you can get some 
onions, beets, cucumbers, or anything." 

Among the things which I brought was a fine bunch 
of early beets, and we promised ourselves a treat. We 
peeled and sliced them, and put them in vinegar. Next 
day they were set out for the evening meal, when we 
talked about them. 

"Betcher," said Warren, "them beets is more'n a hun- 
dred years old. I've seen lots o' beets, but they wuz 
allers tender an' good." 

"They can't be old. They don't keep beets over a 
year like dried beans; besides, didn't you see the tops 
were green? I think they're a new kind, or else the soil 
here is not good for beets." 

"Betcher they ain't cut thin enough for the vinegar to 
sof'en 'em. These cukes are all right; they're cut thin, 
and the vinegar goes right through 'em and they're ten- 
der." 

"Yes, the cucumbers are good enough, but what ails 
the beets I don't know. I've often eaten 'em at home 
when mother cut 'em up in vinegar ; perhaps they want to 
be soaked in vinegar longer to make 'em tender; I don't 
know just how long they have to stay in vinegar before 
they're fit to eat." 



WILLIAM WARREN. 325 

"Betcher right! Let 'em soak awhile an' they'll get 
tender, an' beets is a mighty good relish, too; they're 
good for what ails you ; for a man can't live on salt pork, 
ham and all that stufif, salt codfish and mackerel and 
sich like, without a little vegetable food, or he will go to 
the bad; betcher life he wants a change. Just put them 
beets away until they get tender; that's all they want." 

The beets were set aside in vinegar until such time as 
they might be fit to eat. We sampled them daily, but 
there was no perceptible improvement, and Sunday 
came. After cleaning house, or kitchen and dining- 
room — for our 10x12 cabin was not only these, but also 
our grand salon — we brushed ourselves up, and walked 
up to Serrine's ranch, where Mrs. S. and Mrs. Judge 
Howell were discussing some abstruse question, of 
which we were ignorant, when they both turned and in 
the same breath asked how we were getting along with 
our "batching." Warren went into details about the bis- 
cuit, pancakes, roasts, fries and stews, and finally men- 
tioned the difficulty with the beets. 

There was an instantaneous duet of soprano and con- 
tralto: "Didn't you boil 'em first?" 

I sneaked outside at once, and have no idea of how 
Warren stood off the two women; but the logs of the 
house were not chinked tightly enough to keep out a 
whole mess of laughter, which came through in ripples 
at first, then in waves, and finally in shrieks that toppled 
the barrel from the chimney, and then the cabin filled 
with smoke. 

On our way down the Cottonwood we said little until 
we got to the door of our castle, when Warren turned 
and said : "Did you know that beets should be boiled be- 
fore they were sliced and cut up in vinegar?" 

"Well, no; not exactly boiled, but I knew that some- 



326 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

thing ought to be done to them like baking or frying 
or " 

"Betcher didn't know but what they were just cut up 
in vinegar Hke cucumbers, just as I thought. Betcher 
Mrs. Howell will spread that story, an' every woman up 
both rivers will know the beet story before a week. 
Well, let 'em. There's a whole mess of things that they 
don't know. How in Gibraltar do they s'pose a fellow is 
to know that the tender beets that he finds on the table 
have been boiled, any more than the cucumbers have 
been boiled?" 

The slavery troubles, which had partly subsided, be- 
gan to break out afresh, and it was evident that another 
great effort to make Kansas a slave State would be made. 
Congress had already abrogated the Missouri Compro- 
mise, and this opened the Territories of Kansas and Ne- 
braska to the slave power, as it left the question to be 
decided by the actual settlers. Two conflicting Terri- 
torial governments had been established. Blood had 
been shed at the first election, when armed invaders had 
taken possession of the polls and elected a lot of non- 
resident pro-slavery men as a Legislature, which passed 
a law making it a capital offence to harbor or assist run- 
away slaves; and they had the backing of President 
Buchanan, and the support of General Harney, then in 
command at Fort Leavenworth. But against this was a 
great majority, who had determined that Kansas should 
enter the Union as a free State or not at all. 

Our section was comparatively quiet. We were run- 
ning short on provisions, and, as the staple articles were 
costly owing to the long haul by teams, we would take 
our teams to Fort Leavenworth, lay in half a dozen bags 
of flour — it came in one hundred pound bags — sugar, 
coffee, pork, bacon and other things, saving the trans- 



WILLIAM WARREN. 327 

portation and the profit of the local trader. The prairie 
roads were good in June, and at the frequent streams 
good camping places were always found with the three 
prime requisites — wood, water and grass. At Lawrence 
we fished in the Kaw River, and caught seven catfish, 
one of which weighed nine pounds; we ate the smaller 
ones, and gave the big one to a passing family in a prairie 
schooner. 

There was a municipal election while we were in 
Leavenworth. The Free State men won, but there was 
a lot of beautiful fights. A border ruffian named Lyle, 
who had murdered several men, provoked a fight with 
an old man, and was killed by a Free State man named 
Hallen, who was arrested. 

The excitement was intense and contagious. Few 
slept that night. Warren and I volunteered, with others, 
to guard Hallen ; but there was no attempt made to lynch 
him. Next morning Hallen was refused bail, and was 
committed to Fort Leavenworth for safe-keeping, and 
only our respect for the uniform of Uncle Sam allowed a 
sergeant and a squad to remove him; but Hallen bribed a 
guard and escaped, went to Lawrence and was never dis- 
turbed. 

The buffalo country was west of us, but there re- 
mained a few deer and antelope, as well as wild turkeys, 
along the Cottonwood and Neosho, and Warren and I 
each had a Sharps rifle, which had been sent from the 
East to help make Kansas a free State, and which had 
been issued to us at Leavenworth while guarding Hallen. 
October had come, and one morning there was a light fall 
of snow, and Warren came to my cabin. "Hurry up," 
he called, "there's a deer's track going straight for that 
bunch of willows in the buffalo wallow over there to the 
west, where we shot the prairie chickens a week ago." 



328 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

We struck the track in the fast melting snow, and came 
up to within one hundred yards of the wallow, which was 
a small one not over fifty feet in diameter, and then con- 
sulted in a whisper how we should form for the attack. 
We had come up against the wind, and there seemed 
ample time to consult, when — a flash of gray bounded 
out on the prairie from the other side of the wallow, 
gathered its legs and leaped again as two rifles called 
"Halt!" The buck halted and never went again. One 
bullet nearly severed a hind hoof, and one plowed up 
from below through his heart. Both rifles were of the 
same calibre, and who it was that killed that deer remains 
as obscure as "the mystery of Gilgal." 

We bought Indian ponies, cheap but serviceable, and 
accustomed to any amount of abuse, for an Indian never 
has a particle of regard for a saddle sore, but claps on 
the saddle in the same old place in perfect indifiference 
to the suffering of an animal, and this trait has hardened 
my heart against the red man; he has no sympathy for 
suffering — not even his own. He has served the pur- 
pose for which he was placed here just as other created 
things have, and he dies out before civilization and must 
go, as we must when we have exhausted the coal which 
was stored up for our advent, and our planet falls in line 
with the dead worlds which — have no Indian ponies. 

A little castile soap and water, with tallow afterward, 
soon put our ponies in shape for travel, and as the winter 
came on the troubled times increased. The bogus Legis- 
lature of Lecompton had authorized a convention to 
form a State constitution during the summer, and things 
were getting red hot. Warren and I decided to go to 
Lawrence, and offer our services to General Jim Lane. 
At that time we thought Lane to be the best and greatest 
living American. He could sway men by his impas- 



WILLIAM WARREN. 329 

sioned oratory, to which his profanity added the charm 
of emphasis. We had met old John Brown down at 
Osawatomie, and would have none of him. Brown was 
sitting by the roadside singing "Blow ye the trumpet, 
blow," through his nose, and Warren said: 

"Betcher he's an ole feller that turns his camp into a 
Sunday-school half a dozen times a day; I don't want 
any of him; if you want to go with him, all right; Jim 
Lane is good enough for me." 

Said I: "Billy, I've got no more use for old Osawa- 
tomie than you have. There wouldn't be a bit of fun 
with him. He's a religious fanatic, and says that the 
Lord has sent him here to do things. I don't object to 
his doing things, but he won't get me to serve under 
him. I don't like him, and that's all there is of it. He's 
in dead earnest; but so is Jim Lane, and Jim is the man 
to make things hump." 

We went back home. To-day the fame of John 
Brown, who freely gave his life for a cause, is sung all 
over the North, while my hero. General Jim Lane, is re- 
membered by a few as a political trickster, who killed a 
man that contested his claim to land, was tried and 
acquitted (for that was a frontier custom), and then for six 
years represented Kansas in the United States Senate. 
Then, following the lead of President Andrew Johnson, 
he received the indignant reproval of his constituents, 
and died by his own hand. How differently we look at 
men and things when they are as widely separated as then 
and now, when the cool judgment of sixty-three sits upon 
the rash impulses of the boy forty years ago. 

It was in the southeastern portion where things were 
hottest, and where there was more or less desultory fight- 
ing, but party feeling ran high up the Cottonwood, and 
several Free State men had notices pinned on their doors 



330 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

warning them to leave the territory, or they would be 
killed. I had a Sharps rifle and a double shotgun, and 
bought a revolver from a soldier who had come down 
our way on some business and had no money to get back. 
It was a Colt's army, big of bore and not very accurate. 
Every man carried a revolver, and I would as soon think 
of going to the spring for water without a pail as without 
a pistol in my belt. I destroyed the notice found on my 
door; it wasn't just the thing for a woman to see; you 
iknow how they are about such things; so I closed my 
castle, and left the little family in Emporia, giving as a 
reason that Warren and I wanted to examine some land 
further west, and might be away a month, and so 
smoothed it over while we started for Lawrence to con- 
sult General Jim Lane. James W. Denver had super- 
seded Walker as Governor in December, and he struck 
a snag on the start. About a year before this the pro- 
slavery officials had seized a wagon containing 150 
muskets and carbines from an emigrant train, and had 
stored them in the cellar under the Governor's residence 
in Lecompton. 

"Boys," said Lane, "you are just in time. Colonel 
Eldridge is going to start with a battalion to get a lot of 
rifles that belong to us, and he may have to fight to get 
'em; but we'll have 'em, sure. Do you want to go?" 

"Betcher," said Warren; "we came up to take a hand 
in anything that's going on; didn't we, pard?" 

"Yes," I answered, "and down our way they're threat- 
ening us, and we've got to do some cleaning out down 
there or abandon our homes and be cleaned out. So far 
they only threaten, but we know how every man stands 
in the whole valley, and if they kill one of us the cleaning 
out will begin at once, and will be thorough." 

We went to Lecompton, a motley crowd, some on 



WILLIAM WARREN. 331 

foot and others, like Warren and I, on ponies; I should 
think the "battalion" numbered about one hundred. 
"Colonel" Eldridge made a demand for the guns as pri- 
vate property, and wound up by saying: "Governor, we 
merely demand our own, and are fully armed and deter- 
mined to have those arms. Whether there will be a 
fight for them rests with you to say." That was an ar- 
gument that decided the case in our favor. The history 
of Kansas shows that it was only by illegal voting — "re- 
peating," as it was called — that the Lecompton constitu- 
tion was adopted ; but I can't dwell on this. 

A peculiar state of afifairs existed. The Territorial 
Legislature was now under a Free State majority, and it 
declared the last election to be fraudulent and ordered 
the Lecompton constitution to be submitted to the people 
on January 4, 1858, which somehow happened to be the 
same day named by the pro-slavery authorities for the 
election of officers under that constitution. 

Said Warren: "This thing has got to be fought out. 
Voting is no use. For every man our side can get here 
from Boston or Chicago the 'Border Ruffians' can pour 
in twenty from Missouri. If Congress admits Kansas 
in as a State, it will be under the Lecompton constitu- 
tion, which permits men to be held as slaves. If we 
don't vote for officers we can claim our rights and fight 
for them; but if you take part in the election you must 
abide by it." 

I favored voting, and we discussed this in our feeble 
way until Warren said: "Betcher da'sent go up to Law- 
rence and see what Lane says." We went and found a 
convention in session that was as divided as we were, 
and that Lane had a body of men down near Fort Scott. 
Colonel Eldridge told me that Lane was prepared to 
fight the United States troops if necessary if the Le- 



332 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

compton men called them out to assist them, and that he 
thought it best to vote. Again the volcano subsided, 
and a peaceful victory was won at the polls, the Free 
State men winning every office under the hated Lecomp- 
ton constitution. The officers elected promptly peti- 
tioned Congress not to admit Kansas as a State under 
the present constitution, and the petition being granted 
it put them all out of office from Governor down. Times 
were not dull there at that time. 

Warren sold his second claim, and came to live with 
me. Game was plenty, and from the ridge pole away 
from the fireplace there was always a turkey or two, some 
part of a deer and as many prairie chickens as could be 
used before spoiling. Antelope were plenty, but I killed 
only one; we preferred venison. Near the timber rab- 
bits abounded, but we rarely shot them. In summer 
flocks of screaming paroquets went swiftly through the 
woods, but boys have been raised since and have no 
doubt stopped all that. The mourning dove was too 
common for comfort if one was splitting rails in the 
woods; its melancholy note only ceased at night. A 
graceful species of kite sailed over the prairie looking 
for snakes, and there is a doubt if one of these is left. 
The only snakes I can remember seeing was a striped 
one, perhaps the "garter snake," a "blue racer," which, 
I think, is a form of our common blacksnake, and the 
small rattlesnake called massasauga, which inhabits 
prairies, and seldom exceeds two feet in length. 

Occasionally a train of a dozen wagons would pass 
our cabin going to and from the buffalo ranges, and 
often left us a quarter of beef, but neither Warren nor I 
had any desire to go on these hunts. Perhaps it was 
because everybody else went, and we did not want for 
fresh meat. In the summer the little prairie wolves could 



WILLIAM WARREN. 333 

be heard running deer or antelope most every night. 
No one called them prairie wolves there; they have 
another name, perhaps Mexican or Indian, but people 
in the East make such a mess of pronouncing it that the 
name ought not to be printed. I'll tell you: the name is 
ki-o-ty, but, confound 'em, the scholars spell it "coyote," 
and that leads a man to make only two syllables of it. 
He lives in the ground, like a fox, and, if not as cunning 
as reynard, is as fleet and tireless, and it is said that he 
hunts deer in relays, one gang resting till the other brings 
the quarry back on the circle. He doesn't hunt rabbits ; 
just picks 'em up. 

One day Warren came in with four Httle pups in his 
coat. I didn't need a "dog" just then, but somebody 
Sjftid they were "just the cutest little things this side of 
the Santa Fe trail," and one was left for us. The young 

c grew on a liberal diet of milk and table scraps, but 

when the first setting hen came ofif with a brood he 
realized his place in nature. He was the fittest and 
survived. 

The old hen protested, but he ignored the pro- 
test, and ate her as a piece de resistance, to which the 
chickens had been merely an entree. I also protested — 
with a switch, but Lupus could not be made to under- 
stand that chickens were not proper things to eat. At 
my advanced age I don't understand why chickens should 
not be eaten, and yet I tried to force that opinion on my 
protege. He disliked discipline in all its abhorrent forms 
of switch, club or boot, and before long, perhaps the time 
required to set several chicks free from their imprison- 
ment in the shell, it was apparent that there was an ab- 
sence of cordiality in our intercourse. Lupus was kind 
to all but me after I put a chain on him and fenced the 
chickens from his domain. He preferred to chew my 



334 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

hand when I set a saucer of milk before him, and only 
touched the milk when my hand was no longer available 
as food. Perhaps, poor fellow, his epicurean palate 
longed for live chicken, and resented the offer of their 
bones after his master had taken the choice parts. Gurth, 
the swineherd, had some such feeling toward Cedric, the 
Saxon. 

We passed the summer, and the corn had nearly 
passed the roasting-ear stage; I had learned to guard 
myself from the carnivorous dentition of Lupus, but one 
day Warren called out: "The cattle are in the corn!" and 
surely they were. 

I was a farmer. Ten acres had been put in sod corn 
and there was a crop. The crop may have been due to 
the richness of the soil — or to my excellent farming, if 
you will. But the fence was down, and half a dozen 
steers and some cows were doing to that corn what Lu- 
pus did to the chickens. Perhaps they were right, but 
it was no time for argument. I rushed out, and the near- 
est way was past the kennel of Lupus. He was lying 
quietly within until I passed, when he suddenly decided 
to see if my leg might not have a better flavor than my 
hand, and he acted on the impulse of the moment, and 
took a piece of it, just above the boot leg, where I kept 
a favorite muscle well trained for running and another 
for kicking. He tackled the wrong muscle, and the 
kicking one came to the relief of its neighbor and pro- 
jected a boot under his chin with such force that -he was 
a-weary. Other leg muscles took up the argument, and 
somehow the same boot that lifted him one under the 
jaw cracked his skull, and his hide was drying on the 
fence an hour afterward. 

I was sorry, very sorry; so was my leg. It was too 
bad to kill the poor c , and it was too bad to kill 



WILLIAM WARREN. 335 

the poor little chickens. I was a brutal fellow, and I 
knew it. 

Warren said : "You stood it longer'n I would. Them 
durned kiotys 's got two kinds o' teeth — one for chickens 
and wild animals, and another for human flesh. Betcher 
never try to tame another one. Say, them devils runs 
down a wounded deer or bulifler when they find one, and 
they get him. S'pose we go down on a huffier hunt some 
time. What d'ye say?" 



AMOS DECKER. 

SKITTERING FOR PIKE — LEGERDEMAIN — MY ONLY BUF- 
FALO HUNT. 

AMOS was a raw-boned six-footer, about fifty years 
old when I met him, bronzed with exposure, 
and tough as a pine knot. He had drifted 
ahead of civiHzation for over a quarter of a century, clear- 
ing timber in Michigan, breaking prairie in Illinois, tak- 
ing up claims and selling out when the neighborhood 
became too thickly settled; one of those restless men that 
were always found on the best quarter-section within a 
township awaiting a customer for his betterments. Un- 
like his class, he was a man of fair education, whose mem- 
ory retained much of what had evidently been an exten- 
sive course of reading in his youth; but his associations 
had sadly impaired any grammatical rules he might once 
have known. 

Amos may or may not have been a bachelor. He 
lived alone in a well-built log house on a bank of the 
Neosho, near where Burlington now stands; and it was 
'not good form in Kansas in those days to be curious 
,about the past of such men as you chanced to meet. 
What little I knew of his early life I gathered from 
stories that he related in the intimacy of camp life. War- 
ren and I had been down the Verdigris River as far as 
Independence, and then struck off northeast to the Neo- 
sho and up that stream. We were looking for land for 
several Eastern men who wanted to settle together if 
certain conditions of wood, water, etc., could be found 
on Government land, for they would not buy claims. 

336 



AMOS DECKER. 337 

When we got up as far as the cabin of Amos my pony 
was lame, and we stopped and asked if we could rest and 
see to our critters. We spoke enough of the Missouri 
language, which largely prevailed in that part — although 
occasionally mixed with and diluted by the vocabulary 
of Posey county, Ind. — to know that a horse was a "crit- 
ter," and a cow was a "creetur." 

After the usual question, "Whar ye from?" and the 
answer being satisfactory, he looked at my pony's foot 
and pulled out a cactus thorn that had somehow got in 
it, although no Indian pony would go near a bed of that 
plant. He said: "I wouldn't ride him any more to-day; 
stop over with me to-night, and the pony '11 be better in 
the mawnin'." In the last sketch I referred to the 
troubles that disturbed the Territory of Kansas, and 
strangers were cautious, judging one to be "free State" 
or "pro-slavery" by his nativity. Amos probably sized 
vu up long before we had him figured down, but it did 
not take long to decide that he was to be trusted, be- 
cause he could pronounce his r's, that shibboleth of the 
man reared south of Mason and Dixon's line — in those 
days at least. 

Warren and I had been camping and living on small 
game tempered with salt pork and the occasional pur- 
chase of corn bread, and when Amos suggested that if 
the water was not so muddy after the rain he would shoot 
a pike for dinner, Warren suggested catching one. Amos 
had no fish hooks, but we had a few and some lines. I 
watched him rig for skittering, and remarked that he 
had fished before. 

"Yes," said he, "we used to ketch pike in the Wabash 
an' Massaseep by puttin' on a killy an' slingin' 'em out." 

I caught the word "killy," and said: "I s'pose it's a 
long time since you left New York." 



338 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

"Never lived in New York," and he gave me a look 
of inquiry. "What made ye think that?" 

"I meant New Jersey. They're close together, and I 
made a mistake. I can always tell a man that comes 
from New Jersey, no matter how long he's been away 
from it." 

"See here, stranger! I was a boy in New Jersey 
once, but you don't know it ; you only guessed at it. You 
may be good at guessin' ; guess ag'in." 

"Well, you lived down along the salt water, about 
Raritan Bay or Staten Island Sound. I only want to 
look into a man's eye to tell where he comes from, and 
didn't have to ask where you came from." 

Then I mystified him with some old sleight-of-hand 
tricks; passed a half dollar through his hat, let him draw 
a card from the pack, and then after putting it back with 
the rest told him to feel in his coat pocket and find it, 
and several such simple tricks, which puzzled him. 

Said he: "Look a-here, stranger, that's the best I 
ever seed. Oncet, on the old Massaseep, I seed a feller 
do sich tricks, but he had a show on a boat an' a stage, 
an' we wus so fur off we c'u'dn't see how he dun 'em; 
but I'll be durned ef you don't do 'em right here with my 
own keerds. Say, do 'em over agin', will ye? I want to 
see how ye do 'em. Say, stranger, ef you'll stay here 
with me I'll keep ye six months an' show ye the bes' 
claims about yere." 

I declined to repeat the tricks ; all great magicians re- 
sist such entreaties. I had puzzled this shrewd frontiers- 
man by some simple things, and didn't care to lose my 
prestige, just as you never wish to make a second rifle or 
pistol shot after a very lucky first one. 

When we were alone Warren said: "Them tricks was 
all right; I don't know just how you do 'em, but that 



AMOS DECKER. 339 

business of locating the old man in New Jersey is what 
bothers me, and it bothers him. How did you do it?" 

"If I tell you will you keep it?" 

"Betcher! Wouldn't tell him, but it's workin' on the 
old man an' it's workin' on me." 

"Well, it's all based on a word. He called a little bait 
fish a 'killy,' and that name is one left by the Dutch set- 
tlers along the salt waters of New York and New Jersey, 
and is used in no other part of the country. You noticed 
that I guessed New York first, but corrected it on the 
second guessing." 

Amos had turned his back to put some wood on the 
fire, and I carelessly opened a book on a shelf and saw his 
name in it. Quickly closing it, I resumed conversation, 
and afterward laboriously spelled out his name from 
the lines in his hand, 

"Stranger," said he, slowly, "you ar' suttenly a gifted 
man. To look at yer no one would ever mistrust it, but 
I've read about how these things could be done, but 
never put no faith in it; but now I'm convinced. 
Stranger, put it thar!" 

"Amos," said I, "I'm a greenhorn from the East, but 
I object to being called 'stranger' by every stranger that 
I meet. I'm no more a stranger to a man I never saw 
before than he is to me, and I won't stand it. If you'll 
drop that word we'll be friends and go a-fishing. What 
d'ye say?" 

Warren had caught some minnows in a little stream, 
and we went down to the edge of the river to fish with 
some heavy pecan poles, which our host pronounced 
"pecawn;" this is a species of hickory which bears the 
nut of commerce and is very strong and elastic, but 
heavy. The water appeared to be so muddy that there 
seemed but little chance of a fish seeing our bait, but we 



340 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

kept casting and skittering until I got a rise that took 
the bait off the hook. This was encouraging. Then 
Amos got a strike that was a savage one; it pulled the 
line through the ring on the tip of his hickory switch, 
and scorched his hand in checking the rush. We had 
no reels; I had probably seen them in Eastern stores, but 
had no knowledge of them in practical fishing. It was 
evident that Amos knew as much about fishing as I did, 
and that was considerable, I thought. He soon checked 
the fish and landed it, a pike of some kind that may have 
weighed five pounds. Warren struck something, wet his 
foot and lost his line, because it was short and was not 
fastened to the butt. 

"Betcher," said he, "that fish would weigh fifty 
pounds. It was the biggest one I ever hooked. No 
man c'd 'a' stopped him. Did you see how he took that 
line out? Why, lightnin' 'ud a' been left away behind in 
that race." 

Amos suggested that the pike would make our din- 
ner, and we let the minnows go and went up to his 
cabin. While he prepared dinner I looked after the 
ponies, which were staked out on the prairie; led them 
down to water, and gave them some salt. I wonder if 
an Indian ever wasted salt on a pony? It's doubtful. 
About the only thing that I ever saw them give a pony 
freely was a club. My tough little fellow, which I had 
named "Jimsey," a sort of pet form of "Jim," had become 
greatly attached to me through the agency of salt and 
sugar. Warren came out and put a hobble on his pony, 
and I turned mine loose. I urged him to do likewise, 
but he said: 

"That's all right; Jimsey will stay here with Pete be- 
cause he's hobbled, but, betcher, you let 'em both loose 
an' you'll never see 'em ag'in." 



AMOS DECKER. 341 

"Let Pete loose, an' if he goes away I'll give you my 
claim. The ponies will get better feed if they can range, 
and a stranger can't catch 'em. We're goin' to stop here 
all night, and if our ponies go off you can have my claim 
and its betterments." 

"It's a go; Pete wouldn't fetch more'n $30, an' your 
claim, with house, well and ten acres of broken prairie 
all fenced is wuth more'n ten times that," 

His pony was relieved from the hobble, and we went 
in to dinner. The pike had been boiled, and had a dress- 
ing of drawn butter, a most unusual thing in that region 
of plain living and high thinking. But Amos had cows, 
which are well enough in their way, but have a habit of 
giving milk as a raw material and leaving its manufac- 
ture into cheese and butter to other hands. The ques- 
tion was: Whose hands? If I had puzzled Amos with 
a few simple tricks of legerdemain, such as are published 
in many books on the subject, he presented the problem: 
"Who milked the cows and made the butter?" Of course 
he could do it, but he was often gone for weeks, and cows 
must be milked twice each day. He had butter, and that 
is all we knew. 

After dinner and pipes Warren went out, and reported 
that our ponies were not in sight. "Gone down in 
the timber to browse on the mulberry bark," said Amos. 
"I'll tell you what it is, you fellers make a mistake in 
thinking them animiles 'ud druther have corn shelled or 
on the cob than to browse. They'd druther git down 
in that bottom timber, an' eat hazel brush an' young mul- 
berry an inch thick 'an to have all the corn 'at you c'd 
set afore 'em. Let 'em go; they'll look out fer you ef 
you give 'em salt an' sugar, es Fred says he's done. 
Don't you worry." 

Morning came, and after breakfast we went to the 



342 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

edge of the woods; I gave the shrill whistle with the 
fingers, and called my pony's name. Soon he answered, 
and both animals followed us back to the cabin. Here 
I will say that I am not a horseman, and have no liking 
for horses. Few men like horses. They will tell you 
that they "like a good horse." That means that they 
like him while he is young and stylish, but when all that 
is past he may be sold to pull an ash cart. Out on such 
love! Compare it with the love that the sportsman has 
for his dog, that has worked the fields with him in heat and 
cold, his skin torn by briers in summer and his feet frozen 
in the winter's snows. Is the old dog sold into drudgery 
in his old days? "Not on your life!" as the phrase of the 
day goes. Therefore I do not believe that the average 
man loves the horse for more than he can get out of him. 
I have a regard for the horse as a most useful animal, just 
as I have a regard for a locomotive as a bit of useful ma- 
chinery; but I think, with Charles Dickens, that the head 
of a horse, at its best, is not a handsome thing, admitting 
that some horses may have comparatively handsome 
heads by some modification of that long nose. I am 
wondering what Dickens would have thought of the head 
of a moose! There is no doubt but Mr. Moose sees most 
delicate lines of beauty in the facial contour of Mrs. 
Moose, but we are not educated up to their standard — 
that's the trouble, and a moose is the homeliest animal 
that my eyes ever gazed upon, take head, body or legs, 
or in "the altogether." 

Before we left the breakfast table Amos had arranged 
a buffalo hunt for the next week, and we agreed to go 
with him. His idea and that of his neighbors was to take 
ox teams, and bring back loads of beef for present use 
and for salting for winter, as well as to get the skins for 
robes to use or to sell. 



AMOS DECKER. 343 

The week rolled around, and our arms were cleaned 
and oiled, knives sharpened, the covered wagon packed 
with camping necessities and all ready to hitch the cattle 
to long before the train of ten wagons hove in sight. By 
the time they reached my cabin we had the ponies haltered 
and tied behind, and the two yoke of oxen hitched and 
ready to fall in the rear of the procession when it passed. 
We went off to the southwest, and in a few miles struck a 
well-broken trail near the head of the Verdigris, which 
they had left some distance back to go out of the way to 
pick us up. We were out four nights before we reached 
the Arkansas River, some eighty miles from our place. 
The country was rolling prairie, with timber along the 
frequent streams, and on the third day out I saw the first 
live buffalo, a herd of several hundred, which pungled off 
like porpoises when we came in sight. I wondered why 
the men did not chase them, but learned that they were 
not going to kill a buffalo until there was a chance to 
camp and go at it with some sort of system. Warren 
counted heads, and said that the other ten wagons con- 
tained twenty-five men, and with ours there were thirty 
ponies in the party. 

Amos seemed to be the leader and directed the 
movements. We camped near the mouth of a small 
stream on the north bank of the river; the wagons 
were arranged so as to form a corral to keep the live 
stock in at night to prevent a stampede by wolves or buf- 
falo, but we had to enlarge the circle with logs. The 
oxen and ponies had been feeding while we were doing 
this, and then we gathered them in for the night; three 
guards were appointed to keep watch, one at a time, for 
fear of accident that might stampede our stock in spite of 
the corral, and leave us in bad shape. There was danger 
that some prowling band of Osages, Kaws or other In- 



344; MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

dians might do this, so an armed man patroled outside 
the corral while we slept. 

It rained in the night, but the morning was fair, and 
leaving ten men to see that the stock did not wander and 
to keep camp, we saddled our ponies, and started to look 
for the game. To a question Amos replied : "No, we had 
our guard all picked afore we started, and we don't ex- 
pect you boys to do any of it. Them ten men will take 
care o' things night an' day. I ast ye to come an' hunt, 
didn't I? Then what ye talkin' 'bout? There ain't even 
an ole bull in sight, but you can see where the herd went 
north toward the Smoky Hill Fork, an' mebbe gone on 
to the Saline or way up to Solomon Fork. But there's 
more — a heap more — an' if we don't strike 'em to-day, 
why, to-morrer's comin'. If it was dry ground we might 
see where there was a herd by the dust; there's an old 
bull now off by hisself, but we don't want him. There's 
nothin' good about him but his overcoat, an' that's on'y 
good for buckskin. Them old bulls get druv out by the 
young ones, an' just herd by theirselves." 

We went north to the divide that separates the waters 
flowing into the Arkansas from those of the Smoky Hill 
Fork of Kaw River, which feeds the Missouri as far north 
as Kansas City. The Kaw River is spelled "Kansas" on 
the maps, but nobody called it anything but Kaw, after 
the tribe of degraded Indians who lived along its waters. 
Why this was so may be classed in Lord Dundreary's 
catalogue of "things no fellow can find out." It was 
near noon when our ponies were hobbled, and given a 
couple of hours to graze and drink, while we ate, smoked 
and talked. There had been no introductions; such 
things were superfluous in those days among such men, 
and we had scraped acquaintance, and knew a few Johns, 
Jims, Bills and Joes. They were rough, ignorant men, 



AMOS DECKER. 345 

frontier farmers, and, as I was in that class, we got along; 
but it was evident that Amos had exploited me as a ma- 
gician, for they were curious about me after we made 
camp at night. They were satisfied that I was a Free 
State man, for that was the first thing that a man wished 
to satisfy himself on in those days — are you friend or foe? 

This curiosity became too strong to be controlled, 
and Joe broke out with: "Amos says you can see through 
a pack of cards and tell how they will deal; is that so?" 

"No; Amos says many things besides his prayers. 
Sometimes I make a guess at what cards a man holds, 
and if I guess anywhere near right he thinks it wonder- 
ful. Hand me that pack, and I'll make a guess on the 
hand you have after you have cut the cards." 

This was a rash statement, for the pack was well worn 
and dirty; but my fame was at stake. Running them 
over in shufifling, I got the four aces and a king at the 
bottom of the pack, and then laid it on the blanket. "Now 
you cut the cards anywhere you like," said I, and he cut 
near the middle. Catching the eyes of the crowd, I put 
the "cut" back on top, and played the old trick of dealing 
from the end of the pack, giving him a card from the 
bottom and myself one from the top. When the deal 
was finished I said: "It's hard to see through these cards, 
they're so dirty; but your hand beats mine. Keep 'em 
all together; don't spread 'em out; I can guess better 
when they're bunched. Let's see! I guess you've got 
four aces and a queen ; no, it's a king, the king of spades, 
I think; it's a black one; no, it's the king of clubs." 

He showed down the hand as I called it, and those 
simple men were astounded. Both Warren and Amos 
told me that the hand was dealt from the bottom, but they 
had seen more of such things than the others. The com- 
pany of these men was no pleasure; they were men 



346 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

shrewd enough at a bargain, but children in everything 
else; they had read nothing, could talk of nothing but 
their own uneventful lives. Yet it was necessary that 
something should be done to relieve the monotony of sit- 
ting around a camp-fire and listening to the talk of men 
who could not talk. Therefore, to relieve myself from 
the dreadful situation, ten times more lonsome than if no 
human being had been within one hundred miles, I 
"opened my box of tricks," learned in the idle moments 
of schoolboy hfe, and amused myself and companions 
with the few simple bits of legerdemain which I could call 
to mind. Later in life many such situations have oc- 
curred, when if you wanted any fun you must make it 
yourself, and it is my mature opinion that such a crowd 
have so little humor that they don't appreciate anything 
except practical jokes or the wonders of the magician. 
The humorous story or the witty repartee is wasted on 
them as much as it would be on a Digger Indian. Yet 
that is the state of mind of over half of the people of the 
United States, taking them "by and large." It is safe to 
say that outside what may be called the educated classes 
few appreciate a joke unless it is in its roughest costume. 
Refine it, put it in evening dress, and it "is caviare to the 
general;" but the few who can and do enjoy it are those 
for whom it was intended. Jests are of so many kinds 
that some are offensive. Bacon, in his "Essays," says: 
"As for jest, there be certain things which ought to be 
privileged from it — namely, religion, matters of state, 
great persons, any man's present business of importance, 
any case that deserveth pity." This definition is "funny" 
— to this generation. 

It is funny because "matters of state" are the subject 
of political cartoons in almost every illustrated paper of 
to-day, and as for "great persons" — ^they are the fellows 



AMOS DECKER. 347 

who get it! A young friend at my elbow, who is fully 
abreast of the current idioms of the day, says: "Yes, an' 
they git it frequent, right where Alice wears her pearls." 

"Johnny," I asked, "what do you mean? What has 
Alice and her pearls " 

"Why, they get it in the neck! See? Oh, I forget, 
you wasn't alive last week. Say, that was a big scald on 

Senator in last week's Scalder. Did you see 

it?" 

This is the sort of interruption that comes to a man 
who writes of old times when his surroundings are not 
congenial. After removing Johnny I tried to get back 
by a jump of forty years from the present to the day when 
the bufifalo grazed from Oregon to Texas. 

On our way back to camp we saw a few solitary bulls, 
and some time in the night there was an alarm that 
turned us all out with our rifles ready for action. One 
of the herders had gone off to the eastward, and struck 
a small bunch of buffalo and had killed a calf. He had 
brought the dressed carcass and the skin back, and had 
stretched the latter between two trees just outside the 
camp, and some wolves had torn it down and were fight- 
ing over it. A few fire brands settled the dispute, and 
the torn skin was brought in the corral in the interest of 
harmony. 

The next morning was rainy, but the ponies had their 
corn and we our buffalo veal, and off we went. In less 
than an hour we saw the whole prairie covered with buf- 
falo, grazing and going south. From a knoll the entire 
earth seemed covered with them as far as we could see. 
There might have been a million, or a hundred million, 
or as many figures as you please to add to the guess. I 
tell you in sober truth, and I ask you to believe me, I 
don't know how many buffalo were in that herd. War- 



348 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

ren said: "Betcher there's more'n ten hundred milHons!" 
You may take Warren's estimate or mine, as you prefer, 
or you may go there and try to count the tracks of that 
great herd, I don't care; but I will assert that — that — 
there was a big lot of buffalo out there in the open air of 
that Kansas prairie one day in the fall of 1858. That 
herd was too big for a few men on ponies to stampede, 
and we put in the spurs and got alongside. Those on 
the outside took the alarm, and pressed on without other 
effect than to cause the others next them to think they 
were pressing for better forage. Amos had told me to 
pick a barren cow if I could find one, a fat young cow 
that had no calf near her, and to keep a sharp eye in the 
rear, and not get mixed in the herd, or there would be 
a dead man and a dead pony. 

There was then the spice of danger in this hunt! It 
began to be more interesting. I had thought it would be 
sufficient to make the trip and study the types of men, 
see a herd of buffalo with its flankers and rear-guard of 
wolves ready to capture a weak straggler, or a calf that 
strayed too far; but now that there was danger there was 
a promise of sport. Hotspur truly says: 

"The blood more stirs 
To rouse a lion than to start a hare." 

Our party had stretched out over two miles on the 
flank of the herd, which was moving slowly in the mass, 
but more swiftly near the hunters, and an occasional shot 
was heard. My pony would not take me too near; he 
had evidently seen a herd of buffalo before, and I only 
feared danger in the rear. It was getting to be interest- 
ing, and after I had singled out my game and tried to get 
alongside it, with no other buffalo intervening, it was 
exciting. 



AMOS DECKER. 349 

Unconsciously I gave a whoop as the picked animal 
came in plain view, and the pony didn't need spur nor 
whip to quicken his pace to get alongside ; he understood 
it all. Once alongside the galloping beast, a new diffi- 
culty appeared ; she was at my right hand, and I feared to 
twist in the saddle, not knowing hovy the pony would act, 
and I had never shot from my left shoulder. I did, how- 
ever, shift the rifle to my left arm and fired. The pony 
never swerved, and the huge beast dropped. The shot 
caused the animals near me to crowd away, and I circled 
about and shot again as the animal was about to rise; a 
few struggles and I had killed a buffalo. 

"Come on! Kill some more!" yelled Warren as he 
passed, seeking a fresh victim; but I had cooled down, 
and was content to watch the herd as it turned off to the 
right up the river, looking more like a sea covered with 
rolling porpoises than anything I can liken it to. I sat 
on my pony gazing on the wonderful sight while my 
companions followed the herd and thought only of kill- 
ing. To-day it seems like a dream. Where we rode be- 
side that great herd the locomotive shrieks, and a genera- 
tion of men has been born who may occasionally plow up 
a bone or a horn that tells of an extinct race of great 
animals. 

It was well along in the afternoon before all had gath- 
ered at the camp, and the rain still fell. The guards fed 
the ponies, and we made a big fire to dry ourselves by, 
and by the time supper was over there was a rainbow in 
the east. Amos came over to our wagon, and wanted to 
know how I liked buffalo hunting. 

"Well, Amos," I replied, "it's a good deal like goin' 
into a barnyard an' shooting cattle; just galloping along- 
side of a steer, an' pluggin' him with lead until he drops. 
I'd a heap sight rather shoot woodcock." 



350 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

"Woodcock! What's them? Them air big wood- 
pickers 'at drums on trees fur grub? Why, they ain't 
good to eat, an' it takes as much powder an' lead to kill 
one on 'em as it does to kill a buffler that weighs over a 
quarter of a ton. Wal, that's all right; you can shoot 
woodpickers ef you like, but when I shoot I want to see 
something worth shooting at." 

I hadn't the courage to explain what a woodcock was ; 
it wouldn't have helped the matter in the least, nor the 
disposition to argue the case of sport versus meat; that 
would have been equally hopeless. So I said: "Won't 
the wolves spoil the skins and the meat to-night before 
we can save both in the morning?" 

"Yes, some on 'em," said he; "but it's the best we 
could do, an' if we're short we'll kill some more. We 
allers kill enough for ourselves an' the wolves, too; 
there's plenty of 'em." 

After Amos left us Warren said: "Betcher didn't kill 
any more buffler 'an I did. Honest, now, how many?" 

"One." 

"Is that all? Why, what joo do all day? Betcher I 
killed half a dozen, and put my mark on a lot more; I 
come out here for fun, I did, an' now the gang's goin' 
back as soon as they skin an' load up the meat." 

There was no use in talking to this man. I began to 
feel myself out of touch with the rest, holding opinions 
which I did not care to expose to ridicule by expressing 
them, so I turned the talk in another direction. We 
could hear the wolves howl and fight as long as we heard 
anything, and when silence came morning came with it. 

Camp was broken, and the oxen were hitched up and 
the wagons scattered to do their work. Guards and all 
hands went to the labor of skinning, and from inquiry 
afterward I learned that nearly one hundred buflfaloes 



AMOS DECKER. 351 

had been killed by seventeen men! But they were not 
all choice beeves, and then only the forequarters with the 
hump rib were to be taken back, for those and the 
tongues were the choice parts. If time permitted, they 
would all be skinned, and the wolves would put a polish 
on the bones. 

I had been greatly impressed by that pigeon slaughter 
which Cooper relates in one of the "Leather Stocking" 
tales, where the people loaded a cannon and brought 
down hundreds at a shot, while Natty protested, killed 
one pigeon for his own use and went his way. That's a 
good thing for a boy to read; it had its effect on me all 
through life. It's the fashion to sneer at Cooper, and 
say that there never were any such Indians as his. That 
may be so, but it's the fault of the Indians. I like Coop- 
er's Indians, but the real thing, with the dirt and vermin- 
laden blanket, "Faugh! an ounce of civet, good apothe- 
cary, to sweeten my imagination." 

We will pass over the disgusting detail of skinning 
and loading up. Six skins fell to Warren and me, and 
several forequarters and tongues. That's all there is of 
our hunt. The party was a most uninteresting one, de- 
void of intelligence and consequently of humor. Amos 
and Warren were the only two whose company was en- 
durable on this, my first and only buffalo hunt. If my 
friend of later years, old Nessmuk, had been there he 
would have agreed with me, and in his fondness for par- 
ody might have said: 

"Better fifty shots at woodcock 
Than ten tons of buffalo." 

I learned that the hide of a buffalo bull was not worth 
taking, because the hair was thin or absent on the hind- 



352 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

quarters, and that their beef was worthless; but that the 
fine robes came from the cows, and that the hump rib of 
a two-year-old heifer was a fine bit of beef. 

On the wall of my den hangs a pair of buffalo horns 
saved from the slaughter of that day. Below them are a 
pair of snowshoes, and the sword of an officer of the line. 
Sometimes an old man rests his eyes upon these relics 
until the present is forgotten; the rushing bison with 
their thundering tramp and grunting snort go by in 
countless herds, which somehow change into battalions 
of armed men with glistening bayonets and ragged col- 
ors, which afterward fade into the brown of the forest 
and the stillness only broken by the fall of the snow- 
shoe, until he is aroused by a soft hand on his shoulder, 
and a soft voice by his side says : "Hadn't you better get 
ready for dinner? You've been asleep." 




FRED MATHER. 



A CHRISTMAS WITH "OLD PORT." 

RETURN OF THE WANDERER AND THE FEAST PORT TYLER 
MADE IN HONOR OF THE "jAYHAWKER" — STORIES 
TOLD BY PORT, BILLY BISHOP, MAT MILLER AND 
OTHERS UNTIL DAYLIGHT CAME THROUGH THE 
WINDOWS. 

IT was not a bottle of "crusty Oporto," that celebrated 
promoter of gout, that made this particular Christ- 
mas a day to be remembered; but the "Old Port" 
was none other than my dear old friend, Porter Tyler, 
who figures frequently in this book; the same old bach- 
elor, market gunner and trapper of Greenbush, N. Y., 
whom I had left something over five years before to seek 
sport in the West. 

It was the old story: A boy had spurned the parental 
roof, and longed for adventure; had found it, and came 
back under the ancestral shingles. Many weeks before 
this I had gone the rounds of old friends, and shaken 
hands; but I was not in physical shape to engage in our 
usual sports of winter. The freshly-turned prairie sod 
with its decaying vegetation had left more than what 
some of the Kansas settlers called "a. leetle tech o' ager." 
But one day the mail at West Albany brought the fol- 
lowing: 

"Greenbush, December i8, 1859. 
"You Old Jayhawker: Old Port will serve a 'coon, with 
all the trimmings, one week from to-night, the same being 

353 



354 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

Christmas. He will get up this dinner in honor of your return 
to civilization. A few of your old-time friends will be there — 
not many, for there is only one 'coon; but what they lack in 
numbers they will make up in quality. Tobi Teller has seen the 
list, and pronounced it 'a small party, but intensely respectable.' 
Jim Lansing said: 'Port has killed the fatted 'coon; the calf has 
returned.' Don't fail to be with us, for Old Port will not be 
able to skin a muskrat in a month if you disappoint him. It 
isn't often he gets a 'coon about here, and yesterday he brought 
one in and said: 'This is just the thing to get up a dinner for 
Fred/ So never mind your liver nor your ague, but come. 
Let me know at once, but don't refuse. 

Martin Miller." 



Dr. Jones said that if I wished to shake off the accu- 
mulated malaria of years I must be very careful in the 
matter of diet, and that a roast 'coon might do a lot of 
things which I can't now recall, but to which I gave re- 
spectful attention. There is no possible use in employing 
a doctor unless you put yourself in his hands and obey 
his orders. That is merely common sense. Yet I went 
to the dinner. How true it is that "all the good things 
have been said," and that when we read a good book it 
seems as if the author had somehow forestalled our 
thoughts before we got to the point of writing them. 
Honore de Balzac said: "I can resist anything but temp- 
tation." I had often acted on this saying, but could 
never have formulated it. I acted on it in the case of 
this invitation. Away with Dr. Jones and his hygienic 
treatment of a disordered liver! Was I to become a slave 
to a disgruntled gland? Never! "Enslave a man and 
you destroy his ambition, his enterprise, his capacity." 

Climbing the hill which is now Mechanic street, but 
then was known as the road between the woods, the cot- 
tage where that modern Natty Bumpo lived was entered, 



A CHRISTMAS WITH "OLD PORT." 355 

and there was General Martin Miller. Said he: 'Tort 
will want to know that you are here, and I'll go tell him; 
I've sent down for old Billy Bishop to come up here, and 
help serve the dinner, for we want Port to sit down and 
keep down." 

While General Miller— Mat we called him, for we 
were not too stiff in our intercourse— was gone in came 
Billy Bishop. The old fellow shook hands and said: "I 
don'd like to get this hill up by Fred Aiken's ole spook 
house when der nide coom, but by der day he was all 
ride." Then in came Tobias Teller, a bachelor of some 
fifty summers and no one knew how many hard winters, 
who lived down on the banks of the classic stream which 
we called the Popskinny, the spelling of which is disputed 
by Colonel Teller and Mr. Stott. He was a delightful 
old fellow, with a flavor of cognac and madeira about 
him that mellowed the atmosphere in his vicinity. He 
was called Tobi among his intimates. His worthy 
nephew (my army comrade), Colonel David A. Teller,' 
resembles him in many respects, especially in being a 
bachelor. Then came Low Dearstyne, pilot and captain 
of the railroad ferry. His name was Lawrence, but the 
Albany Dutch shortened it to Low; please rhyme this 
with "now," and not with the negative. The Irish call 
the name Larrence, and abbreviate to Larry, and, as the 
old Dutch have gone, this explanation may be necessary: 
Larry is Irish, and Low is Dutch for Lawrence. Then 
came Jim Lansing, a man of about forty-five years, who 
kept a hotel at Clinton Heights, but had been a hotel man 
in several places. He also was from one of the old Dutch 
families. 

The dinner came on. There was no printed nor writ- 
ten menu, but, as I remember it, the feed was in this 
order: 



306 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

MENU. 
Soup de snapping turtle. 

Coutlettes de snapper, braisee. 

POISSON. 

Brook pike au naturel. Pommes de terre. 

RELEVE. 

Roast coon, entire. Motto: "Whole hog or none." 
Sweet potatoes. 

ENTREES. 

Grouse au Port Tyler. 

ENTREMETS. 

Mat Miller's cheese. 
Punch. 

As master of ceremonies. General Miller took his 
share of the good things without flinching, and destroyed 
a goodly portion of the succulent 'coon, and wrecked a 
grouse so that no anatomist could have identified the 
remnants; and when the punch came on he arose and re- 
marked: "There doesn't seem much to be said after this 
grand gorge that our host has got up in honor of the 
wayward youth who went to the great West with 'Excel- 
sior' as his motto, and has returned like the Biblical hero 
from herding with swine to the paternal mansion, with- 
out the motto on the linen which fluttered in the rear, 
and looked for all the world like a 'letter in the post- 
office.' As he is a Shakespearean scholar, I can say to you 
in the words of the melancholy Jaques: 'Bid him wel- 
come. This is the motley-minded gentleman that I have 
so often met in the forest.' Let us pledge, standing : The 
return of the calf — I mean the return of the prodigal." 

Tobi turned his off eye in my direction, and Low 
Dearstyne nudged me to get up. Never had I spoken 
at a dinner in a formal manner. Miller's quotation from 
"As You Like It" suggested another saying of Jaque's, 



A CHRISTMAS WITH "OLD PORT." 357 

beginning, "I met a fool in the forest/' but it was evident 
that it was very inappropriate; but, as I got up in a be- 
wildered way, I somehow blundered through some 
thanks, and finished by saying: "Somewhere between 
the lids of the volume that Mat quotes you will find these 
words, 'I hold your dainties cheap, sir, and your welcome 
dear.' " 

OLD port's yarn. 

General Miller then called on Port to rise, and tell 
how he came by the 'coon which we had eaten. The old 
man would not get up, but said : 

"Y' see, it was this way. I was off, over beyond, 
away back of Teller's, an' a-makin' toward the hell-hole 
to pick up a few pa'tridges, 'cause Mat and Tobi said they 
wanted to have Fred come over here on Christmas. As 
I watched the snow, I see what looked like a funny track. 
The snow was soft, an' it had been a-thawin', an' the sur- 
face was all spotted with fallin' leaves and dropping 
snow; but there was a kind o' regularity in these marks 
that made me look closer, an' sez I to myself, sez I, that's 
some kind of an animile that's been a-runnin' here, an' I 
don't know what it is. It was a long track, as near like 
what a baby could make if it walked through the snow; 
for there was a heel to it, and it wasn't a bit like the tracks 
of dogs, foxes, cats, minks or other animals that can be 
read on sight; but I was bound to know what the thing 
was. I had no dog — I never hunt with a dog if I can 
help it — and after tracking it a few miles I found the 
thing in a tree and shot it. When it came down, I knew 
by the bushy-ringed tail what it was. It's the only 'coon 
that I ever heard of being killed around Greenbush, and 
that's all there is about it. My father, who lived up in 
Vermont, used to tell of a hunter who had no bullet for 



358 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

his Queen Anne musket, and rammed down a peach-pit 
on top of the powder and shot at a deer, but thought he 
missed. Three years later he saw a commotion in the 
bushes, and fired into it and killed a big buck which had 
a peach tree growing out of his back ; and the hunter not 
only got a great lot of venison, but took home three 
bushels of peaches." 

Tobi Teller said: "I rise to a question of privilege. 
This story of the deer and the peaches appears in the 
sagas of the Norsemen, and is coeval with the sun myths, 
with the story of the man who cut off the dog's tail, ate 
the meat and gave the dog the bone. It is just as good, 
however, as the day it was told by the lamented Baron 
Munchausen, and I would be the last man to take a shav- 
ing off it. But, as every man must contribute his mite 
of unwritten history, I will ask General Martin Miller to 
tell our guest what has happened in Greenbush since he 
left us to seek fame and fortune in the wild West half a 
dozen years ago." 

MAT miller's story. 

The General looked the party over as he arose and 
said: "In this quiet village there is little change from 
year to year, and the only thing which I can recall that 
might interest you is the stealing of Mrs. Parsons' geese. 
You all know that this old lady, who lived down on 
Columbia street, raised great numbers of geese, and de- 
rived quite a revenue from the sale of feathers and 
dressed birds. A neighbor, on a back street, used to help 
dress these fowls; his name was Gordonier; you all knew 
him, and he stuttered awfully. When he was drunk he 
didn't stutter, and so we knew just what his spiritual 
condition was. When there was a revival in the church 



A CHRISTMAS WITH "OLD PORT." 359 

there was no penitent louder than old Gordonier, nor one 
so ready to backsHde when the revival was over. 

"One morning, when the early birds of Greenbush 
had gathered about the two bar-rooms which guarded 
the approach to the Albany ferry, for their morning bit- 
ters, old Gordonier entered. Said he : 'D-d-d ye hear the 



n-n-news 



" 'No,' said John Pulver; 'what is it?' 

" *S-s-s-som'b'dy s-s-stole all Mrs. P-p-parsons'es 
g-g-geese. It co-co-couldn't ha' been me, for I was in 
S-s-s-schenectady.' 

"Then he crossed to the other bar-room, and the 
crowd followed him, and he told the same story, winding 
up with: 'It c-c-c-couldn't 'a' b-b-been me, for I was in 
S-s-s-schenectady.' Afterward he went down to Ike 
Fryer's bar, and the story was retold. John Pearl had 
heard the yarn three times, and went off and told Pop 
Huyler. Pop thought a minute and said: 'Let's go 
'round to old Gordonier's house, and see if he's got the 
geese.' So they went and knocked on the door, and 
when the ole woman opened it Pop said: 'Good morn- 
ing, Mrs. Gordonier; we just bought a couple o' geese of 
the ole man, an' he sent us around here for 'em.' The 
ole woman hesitated a moment and then said: 'All right; 
just wait here a second, and I'll bring 'em to you; we 
didn't raise but a few this year, an' I didn't think he'd sell 
any.' She was very deaf, and didn't hear the men follow 
her into the house, but just as she pulled a couple of 
geese from under the bed John Pearl raised the curtain, 
and he and Pop Huyler saw a great pile of geese, and 
John remarked that she had a great many. 'Land 
sakes,' said she, 'you don't call half a dozen many, do 
ye? Why, they're jest thrown in there on top of a pile o' 
'taters, an' that makes 'em loom up.' 



360 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

"They took the two geese up to Mrs. Parsons, who 
had just discovered her loss, and told her where she 
would find the rest of the stolen geese, and then found 
Gordonier, who by this time had absorbed so many ante- 
breakfast nips that he stuttered very little. 

"The old man, long and lank, was leaning against 
the bar as they entered, and said: 'It's too bad, but I 
dunno who done it.' 

" 'You're sure you didn't get any of 'em?" asked Pop. 

"'Sure? How c'u'd I when I was in S-s-s-schenec- 
tady all night? Just came in on the train.' 

" 'All right, but we found the geese under your bed, 
and you've got to go down with us to Squire Hoge- 
boom's until Mrs. Parsons makes a complaint; come 
along!' 

"He begged and protested, said that some of the boys 
had put the geese under his bed, if there were any geese 
there, and the excitement loosened his stuttering valve, 
which the nips had cemented down, and away they went 
to the Squire's; but on reaching the corner he broke 
away, and ran to the dock and jumped off, with a crowd 
at his heels. John Stranahan jumped into a boat and 
fished him out. Mrs. Parsons refused to make a charge, 
but the old fellow picked and returned to her thirty-nine 
geese. When Pop Huyler met him and asked: 'When 
have you been over to S-s-s-schenectady?' the old man 
replied: 'I on'y w-w-wish I'd a d-d-died the day I 
j-j-jumped the d-d-dock off.' 

"There was a time, not over a dozen years ago, when 
if Bate Hayden's troughs for feeding horses were all 
found on top the little schoolhouse there was a suspicion 
that our guest had a hand in it, but, as he has been absent 
a number of years, he can prove an alibi, like old Gor- 
donier, and say he was in S-s-s-schenectady." 



A CHRISTMAS WITH "OLD PORT." 361 

Billy Bishop, who had been waiting on the table dur- 
ing the dinner, and was now serving the punch with fre- 
'qiieht regularity, remarked: "Der old Gordonier was a 
ole hicocric, so he was." 

"Now, Billy," said Tobi, "you are a little jealous be- 
cause he got several jobs of hog-kiUing that you wanted. 
There are worse men than old Gordonier," 

"Yes," replied Billy; "dere's meny wus as ole Gor- 
donier; dey keep 'em chained, but " 

The master of ceremonies looked at Mr. Teller. 

TOBIAS teller's STORY. 

"You all knew Bill Fairchild, big-hearted, generous 
Bill, who'd give the shirt off his back to any one who 
needed it. Well, one Sunday morning in May a poor 
clam peddler's horse drew his wagon to the ferry with its 
owner lying flat on the load. It was early, and people 
looked and remarked that the man was drunk, and passed 
on. Colonel Mike Bryan wanted some clams, and came 
out and selected what he wished and tried to rouse the 
man, and found that he was dead. Some one happened 
to know him, and also knew where he lived, and sent for 
his wife. In about an hour she came over from Albany, 
and about that time Bill dropped down that way. She 
was bemoaning her fate, and the fact that no clams had 
been sold. The fact was, the man had intended to reach 
some of the river towns before Monday morning, and 
peddle his stock on the homestretch, but had died from 
some cause; and the old horse, finding no controlling 
hand on the lines, had turned around somewhere, and 
started for home with his load and his dead master on its 
top. The crowd stood around idly looking at the dead 
man and the sorrowing woman, who really hadn't money 



362 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

enough to pay ferriage for the horse and wagon, when 
Bill pushed through and learned the situation. 

"The man had been taken into Charley Bradbury's 
livery stable, and with only a word to the wife Bill 
mounted the wagon and started down street singing that 
old song, but in better voice than it was usually sung : 

'Here's clams, prime clams I have to-day; 
They're fat and fresh from Rockaway; 
They're good for to roast, they're good for to fry, 
And they're good for to make a clam pot-pie.' 

"The church-going people looked, and some thought 
Bill must be drunk, for everybody knew him; but if 
people didn't come out he knocked at the doors and told 
them all about the case, and before noon he was back, all 
sold out. He asked the woman how much the load 
ought to bring, and she said it had cost $6, and at retail 
prices ought to bring $15. 

" 'Well,' said Bill, *I don't know much about selling 
clams, and here's all I've got for 'em,' and he emptied a 
lot of silver and bills in her lap, and went out. The pile 
counted out nearly $40, and it was suspected that Bill had 
put in all that was left of his month's salary from the 
railroad. When we asked Bill about it he would curl his 
lip and say: 

" 'I'm a good clam peddler, an' can get the prices. 
Clams, ma'am? Johnny, open the lady a nice fat one. 
Fresh? Yes, m'm. See 'em kick. I think they spoiled 
a good clam peddler when they made me a bookkeeper. 
Yes, sis; they're fresh; how many?' 

" 'How do you sell 'em?' 

" 'Thirty cents a peck.' 

" 'Mother says she'll give twenty-five.* 

" 'Tell your mother to go to heaven. Does she think 



A CHRISTMAS WITH "OLD PORT." 363 

I stole 'em? Whoa! back, Jake! Here's another cus- 
tomer. Yes'm, just up by lightning express from Rock- 
away; caught last night. Ah, see how the juice runs out 
of his shell, thinking how you'll enjoy him.' 

"Poor Bill! When he was burned to death trying 
to rescue the books from the office of the Boston & Al- 
bany Railroad, when the station burned at East Albany, 
and an appeal was made in behalf of his widow, the board 
of directors said: 'He did no more than his duty.' 

"It is true that corporations have no souls, but Bill 
Fairchild had one, and when I think of his sacrifice for 
the widow of an unknown clam peddler and his heroic 
sacrifice of his life for a soulless corporation, I recognize 
the hero. Gentlemen: To the memory of Bill Fair- 
child!" 

We had all known the reckless dare-devil. Bill, who 
in a good cause would cry "clams!" in a quiet village on 
a Sunday morning, and whose tragic death was fresh in 
the memory of all present; so when the next speaker 
began telling of him we were surprised. General Miller 
had selected his victim, and we heard 

LOW dearstyne's story. 

"Talking about Bill Fairchild reminds me of a winter 
night when my boat had been frozen up for months, and 
the ice in the Hudson had begun to get tender in spots. 
No teams had crossed the river for a fortnight, and where 
the foot passengers crossed there were boards placed in 
the most dangerous spots. Although there was a man 
in charge of the boat, who slept on board, I kept watch 
of the river to see that everything was safe. We usually 
wintered the boat in the Albany basin, but this time she 
was moored in the canal between the two big freight 
houses of the B. & A. R. R. 



364 MEN 1 HAVE FISHED WITH. 

"On this particular night there was a heavy fog in 
which a man could easily get lost, and the ice was getting 
weaker every hour. I had looked in at the railroad 
office, and found Bill at work on his books, and sat down 
by the stove. After a while he looked up, and remarked : 
'It's a bad night on the ice. Some people crossed the 
river just before dark, but you wouldn't get me on it. 
No, sir! I wouldn't try to cross that river for a thousand 
dollars.' 

"'Listen!' said I. 'What was that?' 

" 'Somebody singing,' suggested he. 
"A wail came from the river, distinctly this time, for 
the night was still. Bill grabbed a lantern, and we 
rushed out on the dock. The feeble light did not show 
an object ten feet away, but we heard a splash and a 
groan, apparently not far out in the river. 

" 'Hang on!' cried Bill; 'I'll be with you soon,' and in 
spite of protest he dashed down the slope by Dandaraw's, 
where people took the ice to cross. He shouted, and 
soon I heard this dialogue: 

"'Oh, Lord! Help me out! I'm a respectable col- 
ored man, and live over in Nigger Hollow, an' my name's 
Stephen Baker. Oh, do please send someone quick!' 

"Then Bill said: 'You're respectable, are you? What 
did you say your name was?' 

" 'It's Stephen Baker, an' I'm a respectable colored 
man. Oh, do send some one quick, for I'll drown sure!' 

" 'Are you Steve Baker that stole Sim Diamond's 
chickens?' 

" 'No, Lord, no ! I never took no chickens ; it was 
my brother Jim. Oh, come quick!' 

" 'What you got hold of?' 

"'Aboard. Oh, do come!' 

"All the while Bill was looking for the edge of the 



A CHRISTMAS WITH "OLD PORT." 365 

hole and taking off his clothes. In he went, and towed 
the board and the darkey to the sound ice ; but both were 
too chilled to get out. I had alarmed the men in Dan- 
daraw's bar, and they pushed out boards and rescued 
both men. Bill had an attack of pneumonia and rheu- 
matism, and lost a month's work. And that's the kind of 
man Bill Fairchild was, and you all know how he died." 

As I write this, thirty-seven years later, Whittier's 
verse comes to mind : 

"Dream not helm and harness 

The sign of valor true; 
Peace hath higher tests of manhood 

Than battle ever knew." 

When Low had finished Billy Bishop said: "Yes, Pill 
Fairchild vos a goot fayler; we should trink punch mit 
him." And 

"They drank to one saint more." 

General Mat arose, and suggested that a representa- 
tive Jayhawker from Bleeding Kansas was anxious and 
willing to tell something about the human fruit which 
the trees bore in that sanguinary region, or perhaps a 
story of Osawatomie Brown, who had been hanged to 
a tree in Virginia some three weeks before, would be 
acceptable. 

THE LOST HAT. 

I had expected to be called on, and had laid out what 
I thought to be a good story, but Miller's remarks sent 
the whole thing out of mind. I was nervous and self- 



366 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

conscious to a degree, and so with some remarks about 
the newspapers having told the whole Kansas story, and 
perhaps a little more, I said: 

"Our host. Porter, would, I know, rather hear of my 
hunting and trapping experiences than about jay hawk- 
ing, as they call it, so I will tell him how I lost a hat on 
a hunting trip. It was not a valuable hat; just one of 
the kind that you see in rural villages — a hat that under 
no conditions could ever have been a new one. You 
know the kind; they were never created by man, but 
have the air of having always existed. If I cared to par- 
aphrase Byron I would say: 

'I had a hat which was not all a hat, 
Part of the brim was gone, etc' 

"These details are necessary when you tell about a 
hat, for its shape, texture and color are all that comprise 
individuality in a hat. Its texture was felt, and its shape 
was not like the shiny 'nail keg' which adorns the brow 
of a member of Assembly when he comes to Albany; its 
color, if it had any, is beyond my power to describe. The 
sun had toyed with its hues until it had attained that 
delicate shade of old-mown hay seen on the chin whiskers 
of the member from Sqeedunk. 

"That's the best description I can give of the hat. It 
was a rare day in autumn; you know how the hills and 
the maples looked ; I won't go into that because I didn't 
lose them ; they get around every year. 

"I had a new turkey call, a sort of small box with a 
thin cover that said 'keouk' when you tickled it, and the 
turkeys were wild in Kansas, wilder than deer, and an 
old gobbler that had been shot at once or twice took no 
chances. I found a place to lie in the leaves behind a 



A CHRISTMAS WITH "OLD PORT." 367 

huge pine log; laid my rifle handy, and at intervals 
worked the new call. After a while a distant gobble was 
heard. More call and nearer gobble, and I began to feel 
very good. Soon a fine gobbler came in sight, strutting 
and feeling his way. I had learned not to overdo the 
calling trick, and kept silent as he advanced. I wanted 
to get him to come within thirty yards, and then try to 
take him in the head or neck, and utilize him for a dinner; 
so I watched under a limb that I had laid on top of the 
log. He was probably fifty yards away, and my heart 
was pumping more than was really necessary, when I 
dropped the call, and began to scratch leaves like a hen 
turkey looking for beech nuts, and shoved my hat up on 
a stick to represent a turkey's back, when ! Light- 
ning couldn't have been quicker! Something hit that 
hat and cut my head. Feel the scar! The fact was that 
I had called up a turkey gobbler and a wildcat or cata- 
mount at the same time, and fooled 'em both. I didn't 
get the turkey, and I didn't get the hat. It can't be lost, 
for science says that nothing is lost — it only changes its 
form. Content with that assurance, I know that my hat 
is still somewhere in this universe; perhaps a portion of 
it has been taken up, as it decomposed, by the roots of 
trees and plants, and so it lives in other lives, or like 

'Imperious Caesar, dead and turned to clay, 
May stop a hole to keep the wind away.' 

"But my hat was gone, taken without so much as 'by 
your leave,' and I only regret that I have neither the hide 
of the catamount nor the fragments of the hat to decorate 
my den. I can only say with Pope : 

'A heap of dust alone remains of thee, 
'Tis all thou art, and all the proud shall be.' 



368 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

Billy Bishop by this time was beginning to feel very 
numerous, although Port had tried to keep the punch 
under his own eye, for Porter was a man who seldom 
looked upon the wine when it was rosy ; but Billy paid no 
attention to the color of it; the white schnapps of Hol- 
land was as welcome to Billy as any. He wasn't any- 
where near being "over his head," but just felt his oats, 
and wanted to talk. 



BILLY BISHOPS ADVENTURE. 

'•I'll yust tole you 'bout de hell-hole w'at Port had 
gone by for pa'tridges. John Pulver he always tell 'bout 
it, an' how spooks set 'round de edge in de dark of de 
moon an' work all kinds o' harm to people who come 
by der hole. I was a-choppin' in Glen Van Rensselaer's, 
when I dinks I co by Mr. Teller's for my ole axe to split 
de trees, an' it was so warm I lie down by myself to rest, 
an' I fall asleep by a nice shady place. Wen I wake it 
was all dark, an' I see a light down in a deep hole, an' 
den some stumps he roll up f'um der hole an' dey all get 
me around. Den I knowed dat was de hell-hole w'at 
John Pulver telled aboud. Was I schared? Veil, you 
bet you was some schared, too, ven you find yourself in 
de mittel von some stumps, an' dey all choin hants an' 
tance you aboud like some chilld'n w'en dey sing 'Ring 
Arount Rosy.' 

•'Pooty soon dey stop, an' one big stump he say, 'Billy 
Bishop, did you got some schnapps? If you got some, 
yust put der pottle on my head an' go home.' I find der 
pottle in my coat, an' I put him on dat stump, an' by 
Chimminy, dey open der ring an' I nefer stop runnin' till 



A CHRISTMAS WITH "OLD PORT." 369 

I reach Ike Fryer's tafern. Dey can all chop around dot 
hell-hole, but I know when I got a blenty." 

JIM Lansing's story. 

"Gentlemen," said Jim, "I think that if Billy's bottle 
had not been so near empty he would not have seen so 
many stumps all dancing in one set. Just what might 
have happened if Billy had finished the bottle, and had 
none to leave for the spooks, will never be known; but 
that remarkable hole has a great many stories clustered 
about it. Men who call themselves geologists say it is 
only a 'sink,' but there is a foundation for the dread which 
some people have of it. 

"During the Revolutionary War a portion of the 
American army were in barracks on what is now the 
McCulloch farm, just opposite my place on Qinton 
Heights. Almost every night the sentinel on the post 
at the southeast corner of the encampment, just in the 
edge of the woods, deserted. It was singular that all the 
desertions were from that one post, and 'most all the men 
were soldiers with good records. The officers were puz- 
zled, and the men had all kinds of theories about it. My 
grandfather was a private in one of the regiments sta- 
tioned there, and he, like the others, was perplexed by 
the singular state of affairs. This is what he told us boys 
in later years. 

"It came grandfather's turn to be detailed for guard 
duty. A sentinel had deserted from that post the night 
before, and grandfather went to his captain and asked to 
be put on the same post. Said he, 'Captain, I don't be- 
lieve all these men deserted. Some of 'em were as good 
men as can be found in the army, and wouldn't desert 
any more than you or I would. If you'll get me as- 
signed to that post I'd like it.' 



370 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 

" 'How's this, Jim?' said the captain, for grandfather's 
name was Jim, same as mine; 'surely you don't want to 
desert like the rest, do ye?' 

" 'Cap'n/ said my grandfather, 'they didn't desert. 

There's and ,' naming two of his chums; 

'they've gone, and I want to know where. Put me on 
that post on the relief that goes on past midnight, and if 
there's anything to find out I'll find it.' 

"When he went to his post after midnight he picked 
his flint, and put fresh powder in the pan of his musket, 
and made up his mind that no matter about the rules 
against making an alarm, he would shoot the first thing 
that came near him. A 'coon whickered close by, but 
he could not see to shoot it. A hog feeding on beech 
nuts grunted satisfaction occasionally, and soon came in 
sight. When it came within twenty feet grandfather 
fired at it, and an Indian rose and yelled. When the 
corporal of the guard came there was a dead Indian and a 
hog skin. That told the story. Searching parties were 
sent out, and found a hole in which the bodies of ten 
soldiers lay. Its bottom could only be reached by jump- 
ing into a tree and descending. Six Indians were en- 
camped in the hole, but they never got out alive. It's no 
wonder that the place has a bad name." 

"Jim," said Tobi, "I read that story in my school his- 
tory when I was a boy." 

"That proves it," said Jim ; "but no matter where you 
read it, my grandfather was the man who killed the In- 
dian in the hog skin that had murdered all the sentinels 
on that post by the corner of the woods." 

Tobi Teller rose to a point of order and remarked: 
"As there is a peep of daylight coming through the shut- 
ters, I now move that we adjourn." 

A feeling of sadness comes over me when I recall the 



A CHRISTMAS WITH "OLD PORT." 371 

fact that all these old friends are dead; but, in fact, most 
of the men I have fished with have gone over to the ma- 
jority, and while in this train of thought up comes the 
old verse : 

And Jennie is wed and Annie is dead, 
And Alice she fled in the auld lang syne; 

And I sit here at sixty year, 
Dipping my nose in the Gascon wine. 



THE END. 




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